FRK1>  M.    1)K>VIT 

BOOKSICI.I.KK 

ic,i><)  •ri:i.i:<;H.\i'n    AVI:. 


NEIGHBORS 


.  OP  CALIF.   LIBRARY,  LOS  AHGELES 


THE   RESURRECTION   OF   MISS 
CYNTHIA 

THOSE  QUEER  BROWNS 

AND  SO  THEY  WERE  MARRIED 

THE  GLASS  HOUSE 

THOSE  BREWSTER  CHILDREN 

TO  THE  HIGHEST  BIDDER 

MISS    PHILURA'S    WEDDING 
GOWN 

THE  HEART  OF  PHILURA 
NEIGHBORS 


NEIGHBORS 


BY 


FLORENCE  MORSE  KINGSLEY 

Author  of  "The  Transfiguration  of  Miss  Philura," 
"The  Resurrection  of  Mis«  Cynthia,"  "The  Heart 
of  Philura,"  "To  the  Highest  Bidder,"  etc.,  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 
1917 


COPYRIGHT.  1917 
BY  DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY,  INC. 


NEIGHBORS 


21306G5 


I 

""^t7"ES;  I  guess  it  looks  full  es  well  plain,  like 
that,  es  any  o'  them  fancy  ways,"  mused 
Miss  Bennett,  as  she  gazed  at  the  neat 
black  lettering  on  its  white  ground  which  pro- 
claimed her  name  and  occupation  to  a  waiting 
world. 

"  Looks  real  p'rfessional  V  up  t'  date,"  com- 
mented the  man  in  blue  overalls  who  had  just 
affixed  the  sign  to  the  corner  of  Miss  Bennett's 
weatherbeaten  little  house.  "  Them  that  runs  c'n 
read,  es  it  says  in  th'  Bible.  You  ain't  had  a  reg'- 
lar  sign  all  these  years,  Miss  Malvina;  but  'taint 
hard  t'  guess  why  you  come  to  it  now.  All  I  got  t' 
say  is:  I  don't  blame  you  none." 

Miss  Bennett  screwed  her  small  features  to  one 
side  in  a  comprehensive  sniff  of  disdain. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you're  a-hintin'  at,  Henery 
Pratt,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "  I  b'en  thinkin'  o' 
havin'  that  sign  painted  f'r  years  V  years,  off 
V  on.  It's  one  o'  them  things  a  body  '11  put  off 


2  NEIGHBORS 

— like  makin'  up  their  shroud,  with  the  goods 
a-layin'  idle  in  their  bureau-draw'." 

Mr.  Pratt  spat  controversially  upon  the 
ground. 

"  'Course  you've  heared  th's  a  new  dressmakin' 
shop  opened  up  over  George  Trimmer's  store," 
said  he,  shifting  his  quid  of  tobacco  with  stealthy 
enjoyment. 

"  I  bet  I  heared  it  b'fore  you  did,"  retorted 
Miss  Bennett.  "  I  knowed  it  b'fore  she  hed  time 
t'  oil  up  her  sewin'-m'chine, — not  that  she's  hed 
much  use  f'r  it  sence.  My  cust'mers  ain't  th'  kind 
t'  be  drawed  off  that-a-way.  Land !  ef  you  was  t' 
see  my  shop ;  it's  s'  cram  full  o'  work  I  don'  know 
which  way  t'  turn !  " 

"  Wall,  anyway,  it's  a  han'some  sign  you  got 
there,  an'  I  hope  't  will  be  worth  a  dollar-seventy- 
fi'  t'  your  business,"  observed  Mr.  Pratt,  in  the 
act  of  gathering  his  scattered  tools. 

"  It  looks  real  dignified  'n'  like  that,  I  think," 
assented  the  dressmaker.  "  Ma,  she  got  all  het 
up  argufyin'  for  *  Malvina  Bennett,  Female  Tail- 
oress.'  But  Ma's  kind  o'  narrer-minded.  '  Female 
Tailoress,'  I  says,  *  don't  cover  all  I  do  in  th'  line 
o'  dressmakin'  in  a  single  day,  let  alone  a  year. 
I  r'member  Mis'  Deaconess  Buckthorn  was  in  th' 
shop  lookin'  over  th'  spring  fashions;  'n'  she 
r'marks  in  that  deep,  pray'r-meetin'  voice  o'  hern : 


NEIGHBORS  3 

1 1  sh'd  advise  th'  words  "  Miss  Bennett,  Man-tua 
Maker."  'Twould  be  com-pre-hen-sive  an'  el'- 
gant,'  s'  she.  '  Land !  '  I  says,  '  what  on  airth  is 
a  man-tua  ?  I  never  made  up  one  of  'em  in  m'  life, 
es  I  know  of,'  I  says." 

"  A  dollar  'n'  seventy-fi'  cents  is  dirt  cheap  f'r  a 
neat,  tasty  sign  like  that,"  stated  Mr.  Pratt.  "  'N' 
you  couldn't  'a'  done  no  better  'n'  what  you  done 
in  th'  wordin'  of  it.  When  you  stepped  int'  my 
shop  two  weeks  ago  yist'd'y  I  says  to  you " 

"  You  mem'ry's  better  'n  your  word,  Henery," 
interrupted  Miss  Bennett.  "  You  promised  me 
solemn  you'd  git  that  sign  up  on  th'  corner  o'  my 
house  inside  o'  three  days.  Ef  it  hadn't  V  b'en 
I  was  lookin'  f'r  you  from  day  t'  day  I  might  'a' 
changed  m'  mind  th'  last  minute  an'  had  '  Malvina, 
Robes-et-Man-toes.'  'Twould  'a'  looked  real  styl- 
ish, n'  might  'a'  drawed  custom." 

Mr.  Pratt  frugally  salvaged  half  a  dozen  nails 
from  among  the  sprouting  daffodils  under  Miss 
Bennett's  window. 

"  Mebbe  that's  right,"  he  conceded  dubiously; 
"  wimin-folks  gen'ally  runs  after  what's  new  an' 
fancy.  The  lady  over  Trimmer's  store  's  got  a 
black  'n'  gold  sign  'at  reads  somepin'  like  that; 
an'  nothin'  would  do  fer  my  wife,  when  she  seen 
it,  but  t'  have  her  spring  suit  made  b'  th'  new 
dressmaker." 


4  NEIGHBORS 

Angry  tears  rushed  to  Miss  Malvina's  faded 
eyes. 

"  D'  you  mean  t'  tell  me  Sar'Ann  Pratt's  b'en  t' 
that — that  critter  t'  hev'  a  dress  made?"  she  de- 
manded. "  An'  me  a-doin'  for  her  constant  sence 
b'fore  she  married  her  first  husban' — an'  makin' 
up  her  mournin'  'n'  all!  " 

Her  voice  choked. 

"  You  might 's  well  hear  it  f'om  me  's  f'om  any- 
body else,"  grumbled  Mr.  Pratt,  realizing  his  tac- 
tical blunder  too  late.  "  I  ain't  got  no  m'nop'ly  in 
th'  sign-paintin'  trade,  an'  I  don't  see  how  you  c'n 
'xpect  t'  do  all  the  dressmakin'  f'r  th'  wimin-folks 
in  this  ere  growin'  community.  Competition's  th' 
soul  o'  trade,  y'  know.  .  .  .  Say,  I  got  a  bill 
here  f'r  th'  sign ;  if  you  feel  like  payin'  it  right  now, 
— same's  you  'greed  t'  do  when  you  ordered  it  off 
me, — I'll  take  off  ten  cents." 

Miss  Bennett  instantly  produced  a  half  sheet 
of  blue-lined  note  paper  from  beneath  her  shawl. 

"  I  c'd  'a'  paid  you  hard  money  right  in  your 
fist  jest  as  well  's  not,  Henery  Pratt,  an'  I  might 
a  done  it  if  Mis'  Pratt  had  been  hon'rable  enough 
t'  tell  me  right  t'  my  face  she  was  goin'  t'  another 
dressmaker.  But  seein'  she  ain't  no  lady,  here's 
th'  items:  One  card  o'  black  hooks  'n'  eyes;  half 
a  yard  o'  featherbone,  b'sides  m'  time  an'  three 
quarters  of  a  yard  o' " 


NEIGHBORS  5 

Mr.  Pratt  paused  in  the  act  of  extracting  a 
much-needed  red  and  white  bandana  handkerchief 
from  the  hip  pocket  of  his  overalls  to  stare  re- 
sentfully at  the  dressmaker. 

"  Wall,  I  like  your  nerve !  "  he  exploded  wrath- 
fully.  "  I  guess  my  wife  '11  pass  fer  a  lady,  f'r 
all  o'  you,  Malvina  Bennett.  She  never  signed  up 
no  contract  t'  let  you  spile  her  best  clo'es  constant, 
't  I  know  of." 

"Fer  pity  sake!"  cried  Miss  Bennett,  deep 
scorn  struggling  with  the  grief  in  her  voice.  "  Ef 
ever  I  spiled  a  dress  f'r  Sar'Ann  Pratt — an'  her 
with  one  hip  two  inches  higher  'n  the  other,  t'  say 
nothin'  of  bein'  hollered  in  where  she'd  ought  t' 
be  rounded  out,  an'  vice  verser  in  th'  back,  where 
her  shoulder-blades  is  sprung — I  defy  you  t'  bring 
that  there  dress  t'  my  shop  an'  prove  it.  Prove  it, 
I  say,  right  in  front  o'  me !  " 

"  Aw,  g'long,"  muttered  Mr.  Pratt  disgustedly. 
"  I  clean  fergot  what  m'  wife  told  me.  She  said 
you'd  be  rampin'  an'  roarin'  like  a  bull  of  Bashan, 
if  I  let  on  'bout  her  goin'  t'  th'  new  dressmaker. 
But  she  ain't  th'  only  one,  I  c'n  tell  you !  " 

"  Rampin'  an'  roarin'  ain't  my  habit  o'  speech, 
Henery  Pratt,"  rebuked  Miss  Bennett.  "  An'  you 
c'n  tell  Mis'  Sign-Painter  Pratt  so.  This  'ere  bill 
is  fer  a  black  dress-waist  I  fixed  over  fer  her  t' 
wear  to  her  first  husban's  sister-in-law's  fun'ral. 


6  NEIGHBORS 

She  't  was  Em'line  Mills.  Sar'Ann  was  feelin' 
tumble  grief-stricken,  I  r'member,  bein'  took  back 
t'  th'  happy  days  b'fore  she  married  you,  Henery; 
an'  I  set  up  most  all  o'  one  night  so  t'  she  c'd  hev' 
th'  waist  in  time.  She  ain't  never  paid  f'r  it  from 
that  day  t'  this,  an'  here  'tis :  a  dollar  'n'  seventy-fi' 
cents  f'r  work  an'  findin's." 

"  Why  didn't  you  show  me  yer  dratted  bill  when 
you  come  t'  m'  shop  t'  order  th'  sign?  "  inquired 
Mr.  Pratt,  in  a  deeply  injured  tone.  "  You  never 
s'  much  's  mentioned  it." 

"  I  was  a  leetle  too  cute  f'r  that,  Henery," 
crowed  Miss  Bennett.  "  I  knowed  full  well  I 
wouldn't  get  m'  sign  till  Gabr'l  blowed  his  trum- 
pet, if  you  s'spicioned  you  owed  me  anythin'." 

"  No  more  you  wouldn't,  neither,"  confirmed 
Mr.  Pratt  gloomily.  "  I  got  a  darn  good  mind  t' 
smash  it." 

"  What?  My  sign?  Try  it,  an'  I'll  git  th'  law 
on  you !  "  promised  Miss  Bennett. 

'  'Tain't  no  better  'n  gittin'  money  on  false  p'r- 
tenses,"  growled  Mr.  Pratt.  "  An'  that'll  make 
you  liable,  ef  I  was  a  min'  t'  sue  you." 

Miss  Bennett  cackled  derisively. 

"  I  hope  you  got  some  sense  left,  Henery,  Re- 
ceipt that  there  bill  o'  yourn;  I'll  do  th'  same  with 
mine,  'n'  we're  quits,  's  fur  's  money  's  concerned." 

She  watched  the  man's  retreating  figure  well  out 


NEIGHBORS  7 

of  sight;  then  with  the  receipted  bill  tightly 
clutched  in  one  hand  and  the  skirt  of  her  dress  in 
the  other,  she  mounted  the  front  steps  of  the 
house,  pausing  to  gaze  once  more  at  the  subject 
of  her  late  spirited  controversy  with  Mr.  Pratt. 

"  I  bet  I  ketched  a  'nawful  cold,  standin'  out 
there  in  th'  wind  all  this  while,"  she  reflected.  "  I 
c'n  feel  it  shootin'  up  m'  jaw  this  minute.  But  I 
don't  keer;  I  got  m'  sign  'n'  it's  paid  for." 

She  sneezed  a  noisy  confirmation  of  her  fore- 
bodings, as  she  passed  into  the  "  shop  "  where  sat 
old  Mrs.  Bennett,  patiently  pulling  white  basting 
threads  from  the  inchoate  garment  in  her  aproned 
lap. 

"  Fer  goodness  sake,  Ma !  ef  you  ain't  drawed 
them  bastin's  from  around  the  arm-sizes,"  pro- 
tested the  little  dressmaker.  "  An'  me  takin'  sech 
pains  t'  git  th'  linin'  'n'  th'  gathered  goods  on  th' 
outside  jes'  so." 

"  Now,  Malviny,  don't  you  s'pose  I  know  what 
I'm  'bout?  "  demanded  the  old  lady,  keeping  fast 
hold  of  the  disputed  garment.  "  Didn't  I  teach 
ye  ev'rythin'  you  know  'bout  dressmakin',  I'd  like 
t'  know?  You're  a  ongrateful  child;  that's  what 
you  be,  Malviny  Bennett.  'N'  there's  a  verse  in 
th'  Bible  'bout  a  sarpint's  tooth " 

"  I  know  it,  Ma ;  I'd  oughtn't  t'  a'  spoke  s' 
brash.  But  I  got  kind  o'  riled  with  Henery  Pratt. 


8  NEIGHBORS 

Of  all  th'  mean  spirited  men-folks,  I  ever  see,  he's 
th'  beatin'est.  Ef  you'll  jes'  sew  a  hook  'n'  eye 
ont'  this  'ere  waist-ban',  Ma,  whilst  I  tack  them 
gathers  in  place." 

The  old  lady  was  rocking  herself  back  and 
forth,  her  ancient  nose  in  the  air,  her  voice  cracked 
and  querulous  with  anger : 

"  I  couldn't  set  s'  much  's  a  hook  'n'  eye  t'  a 
wais'-ban'  t'  suit;yow,  Malviny;  I  don't  know  noth- 
in'  'bout  sewin',  'cordin'  t'  you.  You  can't  trust 
me  with  nothin'.  Soon's  your  back's  turned  I  spile 
ev'rythin'.  ...  I  guess  I  won't  do  no  more 
sewin'  this  side  o'  heaven." 

"  Now,  Ma,  don't  take  on!  "  her  daughter  ex- 
horted her.  "  I  got  t'  git  this  'ere  mornin'  wrap- 
per done,  so's  t'  take  it  over  t'  Philury  Pettibone 
this  aft'noon.  She'll  pay  me  right  off,  'n'  then  I 
c'n  settle  up  with  Obed  Salter.  I  ain't  never  owed 
him  sech  a  bill  's  I  do  now.  Jes'  's  soon  's  I  c'n 
tack  this  'ere  shirrin'  so  't  wont  git  skewgeed  I'll 
bile  th'  kettle  'n'  make  you  a  good  hot  cup  o'  tea." 

"  I  don't  want  no  tea,"  grumbled  the  old  lady. 
"  You  al'ays  seem  t'  think,  Malviny,  'at  you  c'n 
pacify  me — no  matter  how  sassy  you  b'en — with  a 
cup  o'  tea.  That  las'  tea  you  got  f'om  Salter's 
ain't  worth  puttin'  in  th'  pot.  I'd  's  soon  drink 
hay-water." 

Miss  Bennett  sighed  as  her  skillful  needle  flew 


NEIGHBORS  9 

in  and  out  repairing  the  unthinking  ravages  of  her 
surviving  parent. 

"  I'll  try  'n'  git  some  nice  green  an'  black  mixed 
next  time  I  go  t'  Boston,"  she  promised  vaguely. 
"...  I  seen  a  robin  this  mornin',  Ma." 

"Settin1  stiller  flyin'?" 

"  Flyin' — right  over  towards  th'  pars'nage !  " 

"  Ef  you  see  'em  settin'  still,"  pursued  Mrs. 
Bennett,  "  or  hoppin'  on  th'  ground  it's  a  'nawful 
bad  sign  f'r  th'  whole  year,  Malviny." 

"  This  one  was  flyin' — 'way  up  high." 

"  But  't  was  goin'  from  you,  Malviny,"  piped 
the  old  lady.  "  Yer  luck  was  flyin'  from  you.  Ef 
you'd  only  seen  it  comin'  t'wards  you  now!  I'm 
awful  keerful  not  t'  look  f'r  robins  no  more  in  th' 
spring  o'  th'  year.  But 't  don't  seem  t'  change  m' 
luck." 

"  Now,  Ma,"  protested  Miss  Malvina,  "  it 
really  don't  seem  right  f'r  Christian  folks  t'  take 
s'  much  stock  in  signs  'n'  like  that.  Why,  ef  I  was 
t'  notice  ev'ry  little  thing — th'  way  a  pin  lays  on 
th'  floor,  when  you  pick  it  up;  'n'  droppin'  a  dish- 
towel,  er  seein'  th'  moon  over  m'  lef  shoulder,  'n' 
you  know — I  guess  I'd  go  crazy.  We're  a-goin'  t' 
hev  good  luck  f'r  all  th'  robins  in  town.  I'll  bet 
we  git  th'  house  painted  up  scrumtious  this  year, 
'n'  mebbe  new  leaders  t'  th'  back  door  'n'  like's  not 
a  reg'lar  bath-room,  with  a  kur'sene  heater,  all 


io  NEIGHBORS 

complete.  How'd  you  like  that,  Ma  ?  I  ain't  never 
felt  better  'n  I  do  this  spring;  I  ain't  had  sca'cely 
a  twinge  o'  rheumatiz  all  winter,  'n'  I'm  full  o' 
spring  an'  ginger." 

"  Better  knock  on  wood,  Malviny,"  advised  the 
old  lady  sourly.  "  You'll  be  flat  on  your  back,  first 
you  know,  all  twisted  up  with  rheumatiz." 

Miss  Bennett  swiftly  obeyed,  her  thimbled 
finger  beating  a  smart  rat-tat  on  the  window-sill. 

"  I  don't  see  what  knockin'  on  wood  c'n  do  t' 
pr'vent  it,"  she  murmured.  "  A  body'd  think  th' 
was  some  spiteful  person  lurkin'  an'  list'nin' 
round,  'n'  all  ready  t'  pounce  on  a  body  ef  they 
sh'd  fergit.  I  wouldn't  lay  sech  actions  t'  th'  devil, 
t'  say  nothin'  o'  God." 

"  All  I  know  is,  ef  folks  don't  knock  on  wood, 
when  they  git  braggity,  somethin's  sure  t'  happen 
t'  'em,"  stated  Mrs.  Bennett  positively.  "  I  seen 
it  over  'n'  over  agin.  Why,  I  r'member  th'  winter 
your  poor  pa  passed  away.  He  was  tellin'  Deacon 
Scrimger  how  awful  smart  he  was.  *  Ain't  had  a 
sick  time  this  winter,'  s's  he.  '  You'd  better  knock 
on  wood,  Pa,'  I  says  t'  him.  But  he  was  feelin' 
contrary,  like  men-folks  gen'ally  do  when  th's 
other  men-folks  round,  'n'  he  pipes  up  'n'  says: 
4 1  ain't  a-goin'  t'  make  a  fool  o'  m'self  no  more 
that-a-way  to  please  you,  Ma.'  Them  was  his  very 
words.  'N'  he  set  there  solid  on  his  cheer,  like  a 


NEIGHBORS  n 

heathen  idol.  *  I  won't  do  it,  Ma,'  s's  he,  real 
earnest.  '  Well,  Pa,'  I  says  mournful,  *  I'll  do  it 
f'r  you;  but  I'm  'fraid  't  won't  help  you  none 
when  you're  took  bad  all  of  a  suddent,'  I  says. 
'Twas  the  very  nex'  day  he  took  t'  his  bed.  I  knew 
th'  wa'n't  no  hope  f'om  th'  very  first,  so  I  picked 

out  th'  fun'ral  hymns,  an'  I  says  t'  Pa " 

"  There,  that's  done !  "  interrupted  her  daugh- 
ter in  an  aggressively  cheerful  tone.  "  Now  I'm 
goin'  t'  whirl  in  'n'  git  somepin'  t'  eat  b'fore  folks 
b'gins  t'  drop  in;  'n'  I  wisht  you'd  step  out  'n'  look 
at  th'  sign  right  now,  Ma,  so  you  c'n  act  kind  o' 
ca'm  'n'  indiffer'nt.  I  d'clare  I  c'n  feel  that  sign 
all  through  m'  system,  like  a  girl  would  her  en- 
gagement ring.  But  I  s'pose  we'll  git  ust  t'  it, 
after  a  spell." 


II 

IT  was  five  o'clock  that  same  afternoon  before 
Miss  Bennett  set  forth,  a  flat  parcel  done  up 
in  newspaper  containing  Mrs.  Pettibone's 
completed  garment  on  her  arm.  Greatly  to  her 
surprise,  no  one  had  called  to  congratulate  her  on 
the  new  sign.  Nobody,  apparently,  had  so  much 
as  noticed  it.  Yet  there  it  was,  the  one  conspicu- 
ously new  and  fresh  object  on  the  weatherbeaten 
front  of  the  little  house:  "  Malvina  Bennett, 
Dressmaker." 

"  'Tain't  's  if  them  laylock  bushes  was  in  th' 
way,"  cogitated  Miss  Bennett.  "  A  body  can't 
help  seem'  it,  whichever  way  they  come.  'Tain't 
so  t'  say  showy,  'n'  like  that;  but  it's  neat  an'  it's 
got  style  to  it,  like  my  sewin'.  I  don't  keer  what 
anybody  says  t'  th'  contrary;  but  ef  all  my  cust'- 
mers  was  t'  flock  t'  that  critter  over  Trimmer's 
store  for  their  spring  suits — what  with  more  'n 
more  o'  'em  takin'  t'  ready-mades " 

Miss  Bennett  bit  off  the  thread  of  her  unhappy 
hypothesis  like  a  length  of  thread. 

"  I'll  bet  it's  a  lot  more  unlucky  t'  harbor  fears 
'n'  forebodin's  'n'  t'  fergit  t'  knock  on  wood,"  she 

12 


NEIGHBORS  13 

told  herself  resolutely.  "  Like  enough  Pa  was 
skeered  int'  a  fit  o'  sickness,  ef  all  was  knowed. 
But  land!  I'd  ruther  knock  on  wood  t'  m'  dyin' 
day  'n  hev  Ma  pick  out  m'  fun'ral  hymns  prema- 
ture." 

She  was  still  nerving  herself  to  meet  future 
adversity  when  she  arrived  at  the  parsonage 
gate. 

"Ef  I  tell  Philura— I  mean  Mis'  Rev'ren' 
Pettibone — mebbe  she  c'n  put  me  on  th'  right 
track,"  meditated  the  little  dressmaker.  '  Th' 
don't  seem  t'  be  nothin'  Philura  can't  git  out  th' 
surroundin'  atmosphere.  Now  take  that  baby — 
Land!  I  hope  it  comes  t'  town  all  right.  .  .  . 
Mebbe  I'd  better  knock  on  wood." 

No  one  answered  her  modest  summons  at  the 
front  door,  and  after  a  discreet  pause  she  ventured 
a  second  pull  at  the  old-fashioned  bell-handle. 

"  I  c'n  hear  it  ring  inside,"  she  assured  herself, 
as  she  listened  with  bent  head;  "  'n'  anyway,  she 
wouldn't  be  goin'  out  now." 

It  was  the  minister  himself  who  presently 
opened  the  door.  Mr.  Pettibone  appeared  pale, 
almost  haggard,  and  his  iron-gray  hair  stood  up 
in  wild  confusion  above  his  forehead.  He  stared 
uncomprehendingly  at  Miss  Bennett. 

"  I  come  t'  bring  Mis'  Pettibone's  mornin'  wrap- 
per," she  said  timidly.  "  I  b'en  quite  a  spell  gettin' 


i4  NEIGHBORS 

it  all  finished  off;  but  here  'tis  at  last,  V  I  hope 
she'll  like  it." 

She  thrust  the  parcel  into  Mr.  Pettibone's  un- 
willing hand  and  turned  to  go  away. 

"Oh— er— Miss  Malvina!" 

Something  in  the  minister's  voice  challenged  at- 
tention. Miss  Bennett  paused  tentatively  on  the 
doorstep. 

"  I — er — I'm  sure  Mrs.  Pettibone  would  wish 
— in  short,  won't  you  step  in  for  a  moment?  " 

Miss  Bennett  obeyed;  and  the  two  stood 
facing  each  other  in  the  semi-obscurity  of  the 
passage. 

"  I — er — possibly  you  have  been  aware " 

A  sound  from  above  stairs  interrupted  the  min- 
ister's speech:  a  sound  once  heard  never  to  be 
forgotten.  It  was  the  weak  yet  raucous  protest  of 
a  human  being  newly  introduced  to  this  world  of 
strife. 

Miss  Bennett  clasped  her  hands  in  wordless 
emotion. 

"  It  appears  that  my  son  prefers  to  announce 
himself,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone,  with  a  queer  shake 
in  his  voice. 

"  Fer  th'  land  sake !  "  murmured  Miss  Bennett. 
"When  did  it  come?" 

"This  morning,  early;  to  be  exact,  at  almost 
precisely  seventeen  minutes  past  four." 


NEIGHBORS  15 

"An'  Philura?— I  mean  Mis'  Rev'ren'  Petti- 
bone?  Is  she " 

The  minister  cleared  his  throat;  obviously  he 
was  listening  with  some  uneasiness  to  the  persist- 
ent sounds  from  above.  They  ceased  suddenly, 
and  he  drew  a  relieved  breath. 

"  Mrs.  Pettibone  is — I  am  pleased  to  tell  you 
that  she  is " 

"  'S  well  's  c'n  be  expected,  I  s'pose,"  inferred 
Miss  Bennett,  nodding  her  head  sagely.  "  Th' 
ain't  much  more  t'  be  said  th'  mornin'  after." 

She  spoke  with  certain  knowledge  of  that  dread 
Valley  of  the  Shadow,  which  her  friend  had  lately 
traversed. 

An  expression  of  poignant  recollection  passed 
over  the  minister's  pale  face. 

'  That  my  wife  is  alive  this  morning,"  he  said 
slowly,  "  and  able  to  rejoice  with  me,  albeit  feebly, 
over  the — er — happy  event  is  a — a — matter — in 
short,  a  subject  for " 

"  I'll  bet  you're  both  glad  it's  over,"  broke  in 
Miss  Bennett.  "I  know  I  be;  an'  I  guess  th' 
hull  parish  '11  dror  a  long  breath — what  with  her 
age  'n'  all.  I'll  go  now  an'  tell  Miss  Deaconess 
Buckthorn,  'n'  she'll  pass  th'  word  t'  Lecty  Pratt; 
'n'  b'  two  o'clock  ev'rybody  in  town  '11  know.' 

Mr.  Pettibone  shrugged  his  shoulders  resign- 
edly. 


1 6  NEIGHBORS 

"  Ef  I  was  you,"  pursued  the  spinster,  "  I'd 
muffle  this  'ere  door-bell,  so  't  she  won't  hear  it 
janglin'  when  folks  begins  t'  come  t'  inquire.  An' 
don't  you  let  nobody  upstairs;  I  don't  keer  who 
they  be,  ner  what  they  say.  Some  folks  hes  got 
about  's  much  sense  's  hens." 

The  minister  bowed  his  acknowledgments  and 
murmured  something  about  the  doctor's  orders. 

"  'N'  ef  you  sh'd  need  me  fer  anythin',  settin' 
up  nights,  er  like  that,  jes'  let  me  know.  I'd  ad- 
mire t'  do  fer  that  baby.  .  .  .  Land!  when  I 
think  o'  Philura " 

She  turned  and  went  rather  blindly  down  the 
steps  and  so  out  into  the  street,  with  a  total  for- 
getfulness  of  the  paper  parcel  containing  a  blue 
morning  wrapper,  elaborately  shirred  and 
trimmed  with  cascades  of  white  lace,  the  price  of 
which  was  to  have  cancelled  her  growing  obliga- 
tions to  Mr.  Salter.  When  she  did  think  of  it,  it 
was  to  picture  to  herself  the  new-made  mother 
holding  the  infant  in  her  arms. 

"  It  '11  be  jes'  th'  thing  f'r  her  t'  set  up  in,"  she 
told  herself  happily;  "  'n'  t'  think  o'  me  workin' 
like  all  possess  t'  git  it  finished  in  time !  " 


Ill 

MRS.  BUCKTHORN  was  at  home,  her 
head  tied  up  in  red  flannel,  which  lent  an 
awful  majesty  to  her  aspect  as  she  bade 
Miss  Malvina  be  seated  in  close  proximity  to  the 
kitchen  stove. 

"  Got  neu'ralgy,  Mis'  Buckthorn?  "  inquired  the 
dressmaker,  rolling  her  news  like  a  sweet  morsel 
under  her  tongue. 

To  herself  she  thought:  "  She  ain't  beared  it 
yit,  f'r  all  her  party-wire." 

Miss  Bennett  had  not  felt  able  to  afford  a  tele- 
phone, a  fact  of  which  certain  of  her  customers 
had  taken  mean  advantage. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  heaved  a  vast,  resounding  sigh, 
which  appeared  to  take  its  rise  in  the  soles  of  her 
substantial  shoes. 

"  It's  more  like  new-ritis,"  she  said.  "  You 
ain't  never  had  that,  Malvina,  but  the  doctor  says 
my  nervous  constitution  is  delicate — very  delicate. 
.  .  .  No;  I  know  I  don't  look  it;  but  it  ain't 
always  size  an'  heft  'at  counts." 

"  Thank  th'  Lord  it  ain't!  "  said  Miss  Bennett. 
'7 


1 8  NEIGHBORS 

"  I  don'  know  where  I'd  come  in,  ef  it  did.  I  ain't 
no  bigger  'n  a  minute  'n'  never  expect  t'  be;  but  I 
c'n  whirl  in  'n'  work  equal  t'  th'  best." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  eyed  the  dressmaker  search- 
ingly. 

"  Are  you  's  busy  's  usual  this  spring,'  Mai- 
vina  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Busier,"  quoth  Miss  Bennett  stoutly. 

She  met  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  inquisitorial  gaze  un- 
flinchingly: "  Land!  I  was  sayin'  t'  Ma  only  this 
mornin',  '  I'm  so  drove,'  I  says,  '  I  don't  know  but 
what  I  sh'll  hev  t'  hire  a  girl.'  Not  'at  I  like  'em 
'round,  clutterin'  up  th'  shop  'n'  settin'  me  ha'f 
crazy  with  doin'  things  wrong.  '  Still,'  I  says,  '  I 
got  t'  git  this  'ere  work  out  m'  shop  before  th' 
summer  sewin'  comes  in,'  I  says." 

"  I  want  t'  know,"  syllabled  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
slowly.  Then  she  smiled  rather  disagreeably,  and 
moved  her  large  shoulders. 

The  dressmaker's  thin  face  reddened. 

"  I  jes'  took  home  a  beautiful  new  dress  t'  Mis' 
Pettibone,"  she  said  defiantly. 

"  H'm-m,"  murmured  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  adjust- 
ing the  folds  of  red  flannel  above  her  brow.  "  I'm 
sur-prised  t'  hear  you  say  so." 

"  You  be?    I'd  like  t'  know  why?  " 

"  Per  one  thing,  I  sh'd  think  under  the  cir-cum- 
stances  our  pastor's  wife  would  need  t'  prac-tice  th' 


NEIGHBORS  19 

strict-est  economy.  I  hear  she  is  expecting  to  em- 
ploy a  trained  nurse — from  Bos-ton." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  shook  her  head  slowly: 

"  We  all  know  our  pastor's  income,  Malvina, 
an'  we  are  a-ware  that  trained  nurses  from  Bos- 
ton cost  thir-ty  dollars  a — week." 

"  I  don't  blame  'em  none,"  contended  Miss  Ben- 
nett. "  It's  cheaper  'n  a  fun'ral." 

'  You  sur-prise  me,  Malvina !  " 

"  Well,  mebbe  I  c'n  s'prise  you  s'  more.  Mis' 
Rev'ren'  Pettibone's  baby  hes  come  t'  town  with 
bells !  It's  a  boy,  an'  he  weighs  nine  pounds !  " 

Miss  Malvina  cast  the  final  item  of  informa- 
tion in  the  balance  with  a  lavish  generosity  which 
paid  no  heed  to  prosaic  fact.  "  Might  's  well 
say  so,"  she  privately  excused  herself.  "  Sounds 
healthy,  'n'  anyway,  I'll  bet  he'll  weigh  his  nine 
pounds,  sooner  or  later." 

"  Well,  I  d'clare !  "  gasped  Mrs.  Buckthorn. 
"A — boy!  an'  nine  pounds!" 

"  Dressed,"  temporized  Miss  Bennett.  "  It's 
kind  o'  chilly  weather,  so  they  weighed  him  in 
his  clo'es." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn's  forehead,  in  so  far  as  it  could 
be  viewed  beneath  the  enshrouding  flannel,  ap- 
peared deeply  corrugated. 

"  We  have  a  telephone,"  she  said  coldly,  "  an' 
seein'  th'  Ladies'  Aid  'n'  Missionary  S'ciety  hes 


20  NEIGHBORS 

lately  installed  one  in  th'  parsonage  f'r  th'  special 
use  of  the  parish,  't  would  seem  's  'o'  /,  as  pres'- 
dent,  should  hev  been  th'  first  to  be  in-formed. 
But  to  hear  it  from  you,  Malvina,  strikes  me  as 
exceedingly " 

"  He  was  s'  flabbergasted  V  like  that,  he 
prob'ly  didn't  give  you  ner  anybody  a  thought," 
interrupted  Miss  Bennett. 

"  Are  you  referring  t'  our  pas-ter,  Malvina?  " 

"  Cert'nly  I  be.  Prob'ly  he  didn't  git  a  wink  o' 
sleep  all  night,  an'  him  bein'  new  t'  th'  job,  too. 
Land!  he  looked  like  he'd  b'en  drored  through  a 
knot-hole  backwards.  Th'  minute  he  opened  th' 
door  I  see  somethin'  was  up.  But  I  didn't  ast  no 
questions,  it  bein'  my  endurin'  rule  not  to,  what- 
ever I  see  er  don't  see  in  m'  cust'mer's  houses. 
Th's  plenty  o'  folks  'at  'd  be  reg'lar  gossips,  havin' 
my  'xceptional  op'tunities,  s'  t'  say.  But  not  me! 
1  No,'  I  says,  '  I  shet  m'  eyes  'n'  m'  years  t'  ev'ry- 
thin'  'xcept  m'  bizniz,  an'  that's  makin'  stylish 
clo'es,  up-t'-date  in  ev'ry  pertic'lar.  An'  I'll  defy 
any  woman  in  this  'ere  town  what's  worn  my 
sewin'  t'  show  a  hook  that's  come  off  b'fore  its 
time,  or  a  seam  that's  parted,  'xcept  lawful  on 
'count  o'  customers  bein'  too  fleshy — which  nobody 
c'n  lay  t'  my  door,  it  bein'  th'  work  of  our  Maker." 

Miss  Malvina  paused  for  breath,  and  Mrs. 
Buckthorn,  who  had  apparently  been  lost  in 


NEIGHBORS  21 

gloomy  retrospection,  again  fixed  a  searching  gaze 
upon  her  visitor. 

1  You  tell  me  you  did  not  dis-play  curiosity," 
she  said.  "  Did  Mis-ter  Pettibone  in-form  you  of 
what  had  taken  place?  " 

Miss  Malvina  chuckled: 

"  He  done  it  himself,"  she  replied.  "  Jes' 
squawked  right  out.  You'd  ought  t'  o'  heared  him. 
Guess  he  was  hungry,  fer  he  stopped  all  of  a  sud- 
dent  like  somebody  corked  him  up  with " 

"  Malvina  Bennett,  do  you  mean  t'  tell  me  that 
our  pas-ter " 

Miss  Bennett  stared  uncomprehendingly  for  an 
instant;  then  she  burst  into  cackling  laughter,  rock- 
ing herself  back  and  forth  and  slapping  her  thin 
knees  in  an  ecstasy  of  mirth. 

"Fer  pity  sake,  Mis'  Buckthorn!"  she  ex- 
claimed. "  Your  intellec'  mus'  be  some  affected  b' 
your  new-rights — er  whatever  'tis  'at  ails  you.  I 
meant  th'  baby,  o'  course !  Tell  you  what !  that 
baby's  got  good  strong  lungs;  I  bet  he'll  be  heared 
from,  right  along." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  looked  much  offended. 

"  New-ritis,"  said  she  majestically,  "  affects  th' 
nerves,  not  th'  brain,  Malvina.  .  .  .  No;  don't 
go  jus'  yet;  I  have  somethin'  t'  say  t'  you,  first." 

"  I  was  only  jokin',  Mis'  Buckthorn,"  apolo- 
gized the  little  dressmaker,  paling  before  the  im- 


22  NEIGHBORS 

placable  expression  on  the  large  flaccid  face  under 
its  coronet  of  dingy  red  flannel. 

"  You — an'  I  hope  all  that  knows  me — mus' 
recognize  th'  fact  I  never  take  any  im-portant  step 
in  life,  without  first  layin'  th'  matter  b'fore  th' 
throne  of  Grace,"  stated  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  in  the 
rotund  voice  she  reserved  for  prayer-meeting, 
platform,  and  conjugal  use. 

"  Uh-huh,"  assented  Miss  Malvina,  seeming  to 
grow  smaller  in  her  chair.  "  I  know  you're  a 
nawful  good  woman,  Mis'  Buckthorn." 

"  I  str-rive  t'  be,"  intoned  that  lady.  "  An' 
havin',  as  I  have  jus'  told  you,  con-sidered  th' 
matter,  care-fully  an'  pray'r-fully,  I  have  de-cided 
— feelin'  it'  t'  be  my  Chr-ristian  dooty — to  hence- 
forth employ  the  new  dressmaker,  whose  name  is 
Hobbs,  I  am  told,  though  she  pre-fers  to  be  known 
as  Madame  Louise." 

Miss  Bennett  was  sitting  up  very  straight  now, 
a  red  spot  in  either  thin  cheek. 

"  What'd  you  say  t'  th'  Lord,  Mis'  Buckthorn, 
when  you  laid  th'  matter  o'  givin'  me  th'  go-by 
b'fore  th'  throne  o'  Grace,  es  you  call  it?  " 

"  What  did  I  say How  dare  you  ask  me 

such  a  wicked  question,  Malvina  Bennett,  an'  you 
a  perfessor  in  th'  Presb'terian  church?" 

"  Well,  I'd  like  t'  know  jest  how  you  put  it  up 
t1  th'  Lord,"  replied  Miss  Bennett  composedly. 


NEIGHBORS  23 

"  I  was  thinkin',  mebbe  you  laid  it  b'fore  th' 
wrong  throne.  Folks  is  apt  t'  git  things  mixed 
once  in  a  while,  'specially  when  they're  s'  much 
piouser  'an  other  folks." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  appeared  to  struggle  vainly 
for  utterance;  but  the  little  dressmaker  went  on 
with  a  fine  show  of  recklessness : 

"  Ef  you  wa'n't  a  reg'lar  hyp'crit — which  th's 
plenty  o'  folks  in  this  town  'at  I  could  name  as 
thinks  you  be — you'd  hev  t'  own  up  t'  th'  Lord  'at 
Malvina  Bennett  always  made  your  clo'es  honest 
an'  strong,  double  stitchin'  all  th'  seams,  'n'  's 
stylish  's  was  pos'ble,  considerin'  how  fleshy  you 
be;  'n' " 

"  Malvina !  "  burst  from  the  outraged  Mrs. 
Buckthorn.  "  I  refuse  to  lis-ten  to  you." 

"¥'  can't  help  lis'nin',  Mis'  Buckthorn," 
crowed  Miss  Bennett.  "  But  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  keep 
you  from  your  new-rights  fer  long;  I  got  plenty 
t'  do  in  m'  shop  fer  folks  'at  's  jest 's  pious  's  you 
be  an'  a  lot  easier  t'  fit.  I  always  thought  I'd  ad- 
mire t'  tell  you  jest  what  I  thought;  'n'  mebbe  it  '11 
do  you  good  t'  think  it  over  a  spell  after  I'm  gone. 
One  thing  you'd  ought  t'  git  spanked  int'  you  is  'at 
real  good  folks  ain't  always  blowin'  their  tin 
horns,  th'  way  you  be.  'N'  they  ain't  so  set  up 
with  their  pray'r-meetin'  manners  's  t'  be  a  nui- 
sance t'  their  neighbors.  Why,  even  my  gray  cat 


24  NEIGHBORS 

'11  turn  tail  an'  run  when  she  sees  you  a-comin'  in 
th'  yard,  Mis'  Buckthorn;  an'  childern  '11  make 
themselves  skurse  ruther  'n  meet  you, — specially 
ef  it's  Sunday,  an'  they've  been  smellin'  a  flower  er 
listenin'  t'  a  bird  singin'  in  th'  trees." 

Miss  Bennett  had  risen  from  her  chair  and  was 
backing  toward  the  door,  as  she  poured  forth  this 
fervid  torrent  of  words.  A  joyous  energy  ap- 
peared to  emanate  from  her  small  person;  her 
faded  eyes  sparkled. 

"  Why,  you  ain't  got  th'  faintest  idee  o'  bein'  a 
reg'lar  Christian,"  she  cried.  "  Even  your  Bible's 
got  s'  mixed  with  holy  Buckthorn  you  don't  know 
which  's  which.  .  .  .  And  that's  about  all — fer 
t'  day.  I  sh'll  admire  t'  see  you  bustin'  out  o'  your 
plackets  when  that  Hobbs  woman  gits  through  of 
you!" 

Miss  Bennett  reached  the  street  still  scintillat- 
ing with  the  joys  of  combat.  But  as  she  sped 
swiftly  along  under  the  budding  maples,  the  spring 
wind  blowing  cold  in  her  face,  her  spirits  grad- 
ually fell. 

"  I  guess  I  went  an'  made  a  nawful  fool  o' 
m'self,"  she  reflected;  "never  once  stoppin'  t'  think 
o'  Deacon  Buckthorn  ownin'  th'  roof  'at  covers  us 
— an'  me  b'hind  with  m'  rent,  expectin'  t'  settle  up 
with  Mis'  Buckthorn's  spring  dressmakin',  es 
usual.  Good  land !  What  be  I  goin'  t'  do  ef  all 


NEIGHBORS  25 

m'  customers  leaves  me?  Seems  's  V  th'  Lord 
wa'n't  s'  mindful  of  his  own  's  th'  minister  was 
tellin'  las'  Sunday.  .  .  ." 

She  went  two  blocks  out  of  her  way  to  pass 
Trimmer's  dry-goods  store.  Yes,  there  was  her 
rival's  resplendent  sign  in  fresh  gold  letters  on  a 
black  ground. 

"  Mad-am  Loo-ise :  Robes,"  repeated  Miss 
Malvina  aloud.  "  Huh !  Sounds  like  a  fun'ral 
d'rector.  .  .  .  Robes !  Well,  I'd  like  t'  see  th' 
way  she  finishes  off  a  dress-waist  inside.  Ef  I 
wa'n't  'fraid  o'  runnin'  int'  some  o'  her  cust'mers, 
I'd  jes'  step  up  them  stairs  an'  cast  m'  eye  'round. 
I'll  bet  I'd  c'd  tell  inside  o'  two  minutes  what  sort 
of  a  female  Mis'  Hobbs  is  'n'  what  she  c'n  do  in 
th'  dressmakin'  line." 

She  dallied  with  the  glittering  temptation  to  the 
point  of  crossing  the  street.  Then,  with  one  foot 
on  the  lower  step  of  the  steep  staircase  leading 
aloft,  her  courage  failed  her. 

"  I  ain't  got  th'  stren'th  o'  mind,"  she  confessed 
weakly.  "  I  guess  ef  I  sh'd  meet  one  o'  m'  reg'lar 
cust'mers  up  there  I'd  drop  dead  in  a  double  duck- 
fit.  Some  other  time,  mebbe." 

The  sound  of  high-pitched  voices  engaged  in 
earnest  conversation  on  the  upper  landing  lent 
wings  to  her  feet  for  two  blocks.  Then  quite  out 
of  breath  she  stopped  to  reason  with  herself. 


26  NEIGHBORS 

"  All  th'  fools  ain't  dead  yit,  Malvina  Bennett," 
she  told  herself  with  a  sniff  of  strong  disdain. 
"  Now,  jest  t'  punish  ye,  you  turn  straight  'round 
'n'  march  back  t'  that  there  woman's  shop.  You 
go  up  them  stairs,  an'  you  knock  on  her  door.  .  .  . 
What  ye  goin'  t'  say  t'  her  when  she  comes  t'  th' 
door?  Why,  you're  goin'  to  say  you  want  t'  see 
Mis'  Hobbs;  that'll  take  th'  wind  outen  her  sails, 
first  off.  Then  you'll  think  o'  somepin'  t'  say,  I'll 
bet.  You'll  hev  to.  Th'  ain't  nobody  goin'  t' 
hurt  you ;  'n'  ef  you  was  t'  meet  cust'mers  that  ain't 
lady  enough  t'  tell  you  they're  tired  o'  th'  styles  in 
Arts  'n'  Modes,  when  made  up  es  I  do  it  in  my 
shop,  /  ain't  th'  one  t'  git  red  'round  th'  years." 

Communing  thus  masterfully  with  herself,  Miss 
Malvina  propelled  her  unwilling  body  back  to  the 
spot  from  which  she  had  so  lately  beat  a  shamed 
retreat. 

"  Now,  here  you  be,  Malvina ;  now  you  g'  on 
up  them  stairs.  Bizniz  is  bizniz;  don't  you  fergit 
that  f'r  a  minute.  You  got  t'  know  what  you're 
up  against;  ef  it  ain't  nothin'  t'  be  skeered  of 
you'll  soon  find  it  out.  Ef  it  is,  you  got  t'  know 
that,  too.  But  I'll  be  switched  ef  I'm  a-goin'  t'  be 
skeered  of  a  bogey  in  under  th'  bed,  at  my  time  o' 
life!" 

The  awe  inspiring  words  "  Madame  Louise : 
Robes  "  were  repeated  in  flourishing  gold  script 


NEIGHBORS  27 

on  the  curtained  glass  door  .above.  Miss  Bennett 
paused  to  inspect  them  sternly: 

"  I  s'pose  George  Trimmer  done  that  much  t' 
rent  his  rooms,"  slie  told  herself.  .  .  .  "No; 
them  han'some  gold  letters  won't  bite  you,  Mal- 
vina,  ner  they  won't  help  her  none,  ef  her  sewin' 
ain't  good." 

But  her  trembling  hand  obstinately  declined  to 
aid  and  abet  the  bold  project  she  had  in  mind. 

"  Be  you  tellin'  me  you're  skeered  t'  knock  on 
that  there  door,  Malvina?"  sneered  Miss  Ben- 
nett. "  D'  you  s'pose  th's  a  bo'-constricter  on  th1 
other  side — hay? — his  chops  all  a-slaverin'  an' 
ready  t'  swaller  you  hull?  Well,  ef  th'  is,  you  got 
t'  pass  that  there  door,  all  th'  same.  You  hear 
me!" 

She  was  spared  a  final  effort  of  will  by  the  sud- 
den opening  of  the  door  in  question.  A  buxom 
girl  confronted  her  on  the  threshold  with  a  quick 
stare  of  recognition.  Behind  the  girl  stood  a  tall, 
thin  woman,  her  face  twisted  in  an  artificial  smile. 


W 


IV 

HY,  Miss — Malvina !  "  stammered  the 
girl.     "  I— I  didn't  know- 
u  Uh-huh,"  confirmed  the  little  dress- 
maker.   "  'Taint  nobody  else;  'n'  'taint  my  ghost, 
neither." 

"  If  you'll  step  into  the  reception  parlor, 
madame,"  simpered  the  tall  woman,  adjusting  her 
frizzes,  "  I  shall  be  at  liberty,  as  soon  as  I've  fin- 
ished with  a  lady  in  the  fitting  department." 

Miss  Bennett,  her  equanimity  fully  restored  for 
some  reason  which  she  would  have  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  explain,  stepped  boldly  past  the  round-eyed 
girl. 

"  Why,  yes,"  she  said.  "  I  shan't  mind  settin' 
a  spell,  whilst  you're  finishin'  off  that  lady's  fittin' 
in  th'  d'partment  you  was  speakin'  of." 

Her  keen  eyes  were  busy  with  the  woman's 
dress,  noting  a  straining  seam  under  one  arm,  the 
slanting  sag  of  the  skirt  over  the  left  hip  and  the 
way  in  which  certain  showy  trimmings  had  been 
applied  to  the  waist. 

The  maker  of  robes  appeared  in  no  haste.  She 
28 


NEIGHBORS  29 

stood  eyeing  Miss  Bennett's  small  person  doubt- 
fully. 

'  You'll  find  the  latest  fashion  magazines  on 
the  stand,"  she  said,  indicating  a  speciously  var- 
nished table,  littered  with  riotously  colored  pre- 
sentments of  long-limbed  ladies. 

"  Thank  you,  Mis'  Hobbs,  but  I'm  pretty  tor- 
able  f'miliar  with  th'  spring  styles,"  returned  Miss 
Bennett  easily.  "  You're  th'  new  dressmaker,  I 
p'rsume?  " 

"  I  am  Madame  Louise — to  the  public,"  stated 
the  tall  lady. 

"I  want  t'  know!"  chirped  Miss  Bennett. 
"  Well,  t'  th'  public,  an'  other  folks  too,  I'm  Miss 
Malvina.  Mebbe  you've  heared  o'  me." 

The  tall  lady  shook  her  head.  She  was  a 
stranger  in  Innisfield,  she  said,  simpering  and 
twisting  her  long  neck  to  look  sidewise  at 
Miss  Bennett,  who  continued  to  sway  back  and 
forth  in  a  rocking-chair  with  great  apparent 
enjoyment. 

"Well,"  explained  Miss  Bennett,  "I  jest 
stopped  in — I  won't  say  friendly — but  I  thought  I 
sh'd  like  t'  look  over  some  o'  your  sewin'.  I  don't 
keer  ef  it  ain't  more  'n  ha'f  finished  off;  all  I  want 
is  t'  cast  my  eye  casual  over  what  you  call  a  robe." 

'  You  would  like  to — to  examine  some  of  my 
work?" 


30  NEIGHBORS 

"  That's  what  I  said,  Louisa.  I'd  like  t'  look  at 
th'  inside  o'  one  o'  your  dress-waists,  'n'  take  a 
squint  at  th'  way  you  finish  off  your  plackets  'n' 
like  that,  same  's  if  I  was  goin'  t'  have  one  o'  them 
robes  made  up  f'r  m'self.  You  don't  mind,  I 
s'pose?" 

"  Why — no,  I  don't  know  as  I  have  any  objec- 
tions to  showing  you  an  unfinished  garment,"  hesi- 
tated the  woman,  "  though  your  request  is  rather 
unusual;  most  ladies  trust  my  taste  and  skill." 

"You  don't  say!"  commented  Miss  Bennett. 
"  That  don't  strike  me  like  good  horse-sense,  seein' 
no  lady  in  Innisfield  knows  you.  I  sh'd  think  't 
would  be  a  reel  good  idee  t'  hev  a  sample  robe  t' 
show  inquirers." 

Madame  Louise  appeared  curiously  discon- 
certed by  the  suggestion.  She  murmured  some- 
thing incoherent  which  Miss  Bennett  dismissed 
with  an  airy  gesture. 

"  G'  on  t'  your  cust'mer,"  she  said  briskly.  u  I 
shan't  mind  settin'  f'r  a  spell.  I  got  plenty  t'  think 
about." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  scuttled  hurriedly  behind  a  dingy 
red  hanging  which  afforded  Miss  Bennett  a  fleet- 
ing glimpse  of  a  female  figure  in  the  familiar 
dishabille  of  the  fitting-room. 

"My  gracious!"  she  murmured  to  herself. 
"Ef  that  ain't  Mis'  Obed  Salter!  Ef  she  sh'd 


NEIGHBORS  31 

ketch  me  in  here  'twould  be  alt  over  town  b'  sup- 
per time."  For  an  instant  the  little  dressmaker 
meditated  cowardly  flight;  then  she  stiffened  her- 
self resolutely. 

"  I  don't  care  ef  she  does,"  she  told  herself. 
"Let  th'  hull  of  'em  talk!  I'll  tell  Mis'  Salter 
right  out  what  I'm  after,  ef  she  asks  me.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  t'  take  no  back  seat  in  this  'ere  town.  Any- 
way, it'll  be  cheap  advertisin'." 

Pleased  with  this  conceit,  Miss  Malvina  con- 
tinued to  sway  placidly  back  and  forth,  her  ears 
brazenly  alert  for  scraps  of  the  conversation 
which  floated  out  from  the  curtained  seclusion  of 
the  fitting-room. 

"  Do  you  think  I  need  any  paddin'  in  under  m' 
left  shoulder-blade?"  inquired  Mrs.  Salter's  thin 
nasal  voice.  "  I  gen'ally  hev'  some  right  there 
where  m'  chest 's  kind  o'  caved  in.  I  ain't  had  no 
lung  t'  speak  of  on  that  side  f'r  years  an'  years. 
The  doctor  says  I'm  a  livin'  miracle." 

Madame  Louise's  reply  was  inaudible.  And 
Mrs.  Saltef  presently  went  on : 

"  I've  had  most  o'  m'  suits  made  up  by  a  dress- 
maker here  in  town.  But  she  hain't  no  more  idee 
o'  style!  " 

Miss  Malvina's  thin  face  crimsoned  with  indig- 
nation; she  leaned  forward  eagerly  in  her  chair 
to  hear  Mrs.  Hobb's  comment  to  the  effect  that 


32  NEIGHBORS 

country  dressmakers  were  generally  lacking  in 
style. 

"  We're  s'  glad  an'  thankful  you  come  t'  Innis- 
field,"  pursued  Mrs.  Salter  soulfully.  u  How'd  it 
happen?  " 

"What — me  comin'  here?"  inquired  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  whose  utterance  indicated  a  mouthful  of 
pins.  "  Well,  'course  I  wouldn't  mention  it  t' 
everybody,  m — m — m,  but  I've  seen  better  days, 
Mis'  Salter,  m — m — m.  Time  was  when  I  had 
my  own  m — m — m  cos-tumes  im-ported  from 
Paris." 

"  Fer  th'  land  sake !  "  ejaculated  Mrs.  Salter, 
"  from — Paris !  I  want  t'  know." 

"  But  I  always  had  such  taste,  so  when  my  dear 

husban' If  you'll  jus'  turn  'round  a  little; 

that's  right.  .  .  .  Now  I  guess  we're  through  for 
to-day.  .  .  .  No;  don't  come  t'-morrow.  The's 
a  lot  o'  ladies  coming  in  t'-morrow;  but  the  day 
after.  .  .  .  No;  I'm  sorry  but  I  really  couldn't 
promise,  Mis'  Salter.  I'm  s'  rushed." 

A  pause,  filled  with  active  rustlings  from  within 
presaged  Mrs.  Salter's  advent  into  the  outer  room, 
where  sat  Miss  Bennett,  her  features  composed 
to  a  strong  calm. 

"  Well,  I  never !  "  faltered  the  wife  of  the 
grocer,  her  lavender-tinted  complexion  becoming 
curiously  spotted  with  red. 


NEIGHBORS  33 

"  You  seem  s'rprised  t'  see  me,  Mis'  Salter," 
commented  Miss  Bennett. 

"  Why,  I You  c'd  knock  me  down  with  a 

feather!  "  panted  Mrs.  Salter. 

"I  d'clare,  ain't  that  funny!  Well,  es  it 
happens,  I  got  bizniz  with  Louisa,  same's  you 
have." 

Miss  Malvina  turned  to  the  proprietor  of  the 
new  establishment  with  a  dignity  which  appeared 
to  propel  Mrs.  Obed  Salter  out  of  the  door  and 
down  the  stairs,  though  quite  against  that  lady's 
will. 

"  Now,"  she  said,  addressing  the  puzzled  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  "  I'll  jest  take  a  look  at  the  suit  you're 
makin'  up  fer  Mis'  Obed  Salter.  It  '11  be  's  good 
's  another  s'  fur  's  I'm  concerned." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  sat  down  rather  suddenly. 

"  I  ain't  ust'  to  standing,"  she  explained. 
'  These  long  fittings  tire  me  something  fierce." 

Miss  Bennett  nodded  sagaciously. 

"  Guess  you  ain't  bin  long  in  th'  bizniz,"  she 
inferred. 

"  No;  not  so  long,"  acknowledged  Mrs.  Hobbs. 
"  But  then,  I  always  had  such  a  lot  of  taste,"  she 
added. 

'  The's  plenty  o'  folks  c'n  brag  o'  taste  'at  can't 
fell  a  seam  t'  save  their  necks  f'om  th'  gallows," 
commented  Miss  Bennett  darkly. 


34  NEIGHBORS 

She  continued  to  gaze  at  her  rival,  who  blinked 
uneasily  as  if  under  a  searchlight. 

"  If  you  was  wanting  a  dress  made,"  offered 
Mrs.  Hobbs,  "  I  guess  I  can't  'commodate  you — 
not  f'r  a  month,  anyway.  I  guess  I  took  in  too 
much,  as  it  is — an'  all  of  'em  hurrying  me,"  she 
added  fretfully. 

"Huh!"  ejaculated  Miss  Bennett.  "  Mebbe 
they  won't  pester  ye  no  more  after  th'  first  dress 
you  make  up  for  'em." 

"  That's  what  I'm  afraid  of,"  murmured  Mrs. 
Hobbs  unexpectedly. 

Quite  unexpectedly  too,  she  began  to  dab  at  her 
purplish  lids  with  a  dingy  handkerchief. 

"  I  never  supposed — I  hadn't  an  idea "  she 

said,  and  broke  off  with  an  ^obvious  effort.  "  I  sat 
up  till  one  o'clock  last  night  and  the  night  before 
trying  to — to  finish  some  dresses.  But " 

"  Fer  goodness  sake  why  don't  you  git  in  some 
help?"  demanded  Miss  Bennett.  "You  don't 
look  to  me  like  you  hed  th'  gumption  t'  whirl  in 
an'  really  sew." 

"  I've  got  lots  of  taste  an' — an'  style,"  almost 
whimpered  Mrs.  Hobbs.  "  But  I'm  s'  nervous— 
an'  when  they  all  take  to  hurrying  me " 

Miss  Bennett  arose  with  a  gesture  of  large  re- 
nunciation. 

"  I  guess  I  must  be  goin'  along,"  she  said.    "  I 


NEIGHBORS  35 

got  a  few  things  t'  do  m'self.  But  thank  th'  Lord 
I  ain't  nervous  an'  never  was !  Ef  a  body  knows 
how  t'  handle  their  job  an'  gits  busy  doin'  it  they 
won't  hev  no  time  t'  tend  their  nerves.  I'm  reel 
glad  I  come  t'  see  you,  Mis'  Hobbs." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  followed  her  visitor's  quick,  bird- 
like  movements  with  lackluster  eyes. 

'  You  was  speaking  of  my  getting  in  somebody 
to — to  help,"  she  said  doubtfully.  "  Do  you — 
could  you  tell  me  of  anybody?  " 

Miss  Bennett  stopped  short,  as  if  forcibly  ar- 
rested by  the  other  woman's  question. 

"  How  much  would  you  pay?  "  she  asked,  in  a 
queer,  half-stifled  voice.  "  F'r  a  reel  dressmaker, 
I  mean.  One  'at  knows  their  bizniz  from  a  t' 
izzard  an'  ain't  afraid  t'  whirl  in  an'  work.  The's 
a  friend  o'  mine — I  might  git  t' — t'  help  you  out 
f'r  a  spell,  mebbe." 

Miss  BenTiett  felt  herself  deeply  humiliated  by 
the  suggestion  she  had  allowed  to  escape  her. 
That  she,  Malvina  Bennett,  who  had  run  her  own 
shop  for  years  and  years  should  be  reduced  to 
begging  for  work  by  the  day.  It  was  unbeliev- 
able !  It  was  dreadful !  And  yet  there  were  the 
three  insistent  specters  of  rent,  fuel,  and  food 
which  had  haunted  her  night  and  day  through 
weeks  of  comparative  idleness.  And  there  was 
Ma! 


36  NEIGHBORS 

"  Ef  I  c'd  only  hold  on  till  fall,"  she  was  telling 
herself,  when  Mrs.  Hobbs  broke  in  eagerly: 

"  Send  your  friend  around  the  first  thing  in  the 
morning.  I'd  be  only  too  pleased  to  pay  her  two 
dollars  n'  a  ha'f  a  day,  if  she's  what  you  say." 

Miss  Malvina  was  silent,  her  eyes  fastened 
blindly  upon  the  door  knob  clutched  tight  in  the 
grip  of  her  slippery  cotton  glove.  She  could  feel 
her  ears  burn  crimson  under  Mrs.  Hobbs'  watery 
gaze. 

"  Three  times  six  is  eighteen,"  computed  Mrs. 
Hobbs.  "Yes;  I  d'clare  I'd  make  it  three  a-day 
— f'r  a  while,  anyway.  I  jus'  got  t'  do  something 
— 'r  go  raving  crazy!  " 

Miss  Malvina  hastily  swallowed  the  round, 
hard  lump  which  had  risen  in  her  throat. 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Mis'  Hobbs,"  she  hesi- 
tated. "  I  spoke  kind  o'  hasty.  My  friend — her 
't  I  was  speakin'  of — wouldn't  hear  t'  goin'  out  b' 
th'  day.  .  .  .  'N'  I  don't  b'lieve  she'd — even 
come  to  your  shop  t'  see  you,  neither.  But  ef  I— 
ef  I  was  t'  fetch  the  work  home  t'  her — evenin's, 
when  I  ain't  busy  m'self — I'll  bet  she'd  do  some 
a-number-one  work  fer  you.  She  c'n  sew!  .  .  . 
What  d'  ye  say  t' — t'  tryin'  her,  on  a  dress-waist, 
er  like  that?  Ef  you  don't  like  her  work,  't  won't 
cost  you  a  red  cent.  Ef  you  do,  it'll  be  three  dol- 
lars a-day,  same  's  you  said,  'n'  reg'lar  hours." 


NEIGHBORS  37 

Mrs.  Hobbs  gripped  her  visitor's  arm. 

"  Come  in  m'  work-room — jus'  for  a  minute," 
she  urged. 

Once  behind  the  breastworks  of  Mrs.  Hobbs' 
establishment  Miss  Malvina  gasped  with  the  won- 
der of  what  she  beheld:  chairs,  tables,  even  the 
floor  bore  evidence  of  overwhelming  success  in 
the  shape  of  inchoate  garments  of  every  descrip- 
tion. A  couple  of  headless  figures,  purporting  to 
counterfeit  the  female  form  divine,  exhibited  the 
more  finished  products  of  Mrs.  Hobbs'  genius, 
while  a  soiled  teacup,  a  dispirited  dab  of  butter, 
and  a  broken  loaf  shared  the  table  with  a  lavish 
supply  of  spools,  buttons,  and  parti-colored  trim- 
mings. 

"  Per  th'  land  sake !  "  cried  Miss  Malvina,  roll- 
ing up  her  eyes  to  an  unjust  heaven.  "  The's  work 
enough  here  f'r  a  dozen  dressmakers  a-workin' 
day  an'  night  f'r  a  month.  What  on  airth  did  you 
take  it  all  in  for?" 

Mrs.  Hobbs  gazed  about  her  with  a  sort  of 
mournful  pride. 

'  The  ladies  kep'  a-coming,"  she  said,  "  an'  I 
hardly  knew  where  to  draw  the  line.  But  I  haven't 
sat  down  to  a  regular  meal  since  the  first  day  I 
came." 

Miss  Malvina  sealed  up  her  complex  emotions 
with  a  prolonged  sniff. 


3  8  NEIGHBORS 

"  I  might  's  well  take  a  dress-waist  now,"  she 
remarked.  "  Which  '11  it  be?  " 

Mrs.  Hobbs  reflected,  her  frizzled  head  sup- 
ported on  one  dingy  hand. 

"  Well,"  said  she,  "  I  hardly  know  where  to 
begin.  There's  a  Mrs.  Bucksmith — no;  that  ain't 
the  name,  either;  I'll  look  it  up  in  m'  book.  She's 
a  large  lady,  an'  she  says  she  wants  her  dress  for 
divine  worship  nex'  Sunday.  That's  it  on  the 
figure  there.  I'm  making  up  a  costume  for  her 
daughter,  too." 

"Uh — huh,"  Miss  Malvina  permitted  herself 
to  utter.  Then  she  sniffed  again.  "  Do  you  .mean 
t'  tell  me  that  there  brown  an'  purple  is  for  Mis' 
Buckthorn? — I  s'pose  that's  what  you  call  a  robe." 

"Stylish!  ain't  it?"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs.  "I 
copied  it  right  off  a  fashion  plate — the  very  latest 
from  Sher  Par-ee." 

"Huh?" 

"  Paris — we  call  it  on  this  side  the  water,"  con- 
descended Mrs.  Hobbs.  "  If  you  c'd  take  that  an' 
— an'  persuade  your  friend  to  finish  it  off." 

"  All  right,"  said  Miss  Malvina  briefly.  "  I'll 
take  it  along  right  now." 

Under  cover  of  the  gathering  dusk  she  hurried 
homeward,  the  large  flat  parcel  containing  Mrs. 
Buckthorn's  brown  and  purple  robe  under  her 
arm. 


NEIGHBORS  39 

11 1  ain't  a-goin'  t'  let  Ma  starve,"  she  told  her- 
self defiantly.  "I'll  finish  'em  off  honest.  But 
land !  what  a  set  o'  scarecrows  '11  be  comin'  out  t' 
church  bimeby.  I  sh'll  admire  t'  see  'em  settin'  in 
th'  pews." 


AT  her  own  door  Miss  Malvina  paused. 
How  was  she  to  explain  the  flat  parcel  and 
its  alien  contents  to  Ma? 

"  Never  cross  a  bridge  tell  you  git  t'  it,"  she 
muttered,  and  moved  cautiously  around  to  the 
back  door  with  the  unformulated  idea  of  conceal- 
ing Mrs.  Buckthorn's  Parisian  costume  in  the 
wash-boiler  till  Ma  should  be  safely  in  bed. 

To  her  surprise  the  door  of  the  kitchen  stood 
wide  open,  admitting  the  freakish  April  wind  in 
furious  gusts. 

"  Why,  Ma  Bennett!  "  began  Miss  Malvina  re- 
bukingly.     "  Ef  you  don't  ketch  a  nawful  cold— 
with  all  this  fresh  air  in  th'  house." 

Then  she  saw  that  the  kitchen  fire  was  almost 
out  and  fell  to  mending  it  vigorously. 

"  I  guess  Ma  jes'  stepped  over  t'  one  o'  th' 
neighbors,"  she  assured  herself.  "  An'  th'  wind 
blowed  th'  door  open." 

Mrs.  Bennett  herself  confirmed  this  hypothesis 
a  moment  later.  "  I  b'en  in  next  door,"  she  an- 
nounced, as  she  dropped  the  heavy  woolen  shawl 
from  her  shoulders. 

40 


NEIGHBORS  41 

"  It's  awful  fresh  here,  Ma,"  cautioned  her 
daughter.  "  I  found  th'  back  door  wide  open." 

Mrs.  Bennett  sneezed  three  times  in  rapid  suc- 
cession. 

"  I  guess  I  ketched  m'  death  all  right,"  she  said 
complacently.  "Where  you  b'en,  Malviny?" 

"Me?  Oh,  I  b'en  down  town 'n' round.  .  .  . 
I  got  some  grand  news  f'r  you,  Ma!  " 

"Huh?" 

"  Philura  Pettibone's  got  a  baby,  Ma !  Come  t' 
town  this  mornin'.  A  boy,  an'  he  weighs  ten 
pounds!  " 

"  Born  on  a  Friday,"  commented  the  old  lady. 
"  An'  a  minister's  son,  at  that!  " 

'  That  ain't  a-goin'  t'  hurt  him  none !  "  con- 
tended Miss  Bennett,  glancing  sidewise  at  the  in- 
criminating parcel  which  she  had  neglected  to  con- 
ceal. "  Ain't  you  glad,  Ma?  I'm  tickled  most  t' 
pieces.  T'  think  o'  Philura — at  her  age,  with  a 
real  baby  all  her  own!  " 

Mrs.  Bennett  was  not  listening.  She  moved 
stiffly  across  the  floor. 

"  Come  here,  Malviny,"  she  bade  her  daugh- 
ter. "  Look  a'  there,  will  you !  " 

Miss  Bennett  peered  through  the  small-paned 
window  in  obedience  to  her  mother's  pointing 
finger. 

"  I  d'clare,  looks  like  th'  was  a  light  next  door," 


42  NEIGHBORS 

she  said.  "  The'  is !  Land !  I  ain't  seen  a  light 
over  there  f'r — 1'  me  see " 

"  It'll  be  two  years,  come  June,"  wheezed  Mrs. 
Bennett.  "  They  moved  in  this  aft'noon,  jes' 
after  you  went  downtown.  I  was  settin'  b'  th' 
kitchen  window  an'  I  seen  'em  come.  Now  I  guess 
you're  sorry  you  went  off  an'  stayed  two  hours. 
Yes,  you  did,  Malviny,  two  hours  b'  th'  clock,  an' 
me  here  all  b'  myself.  No  thanks  t'  you  'at  I  ain't 
dropped  dead  in  m'  tracks,  Malviny  Bennett, 
with  you  off  p'radin'  th'  streets,  like  you  was 
sixteen." 

"  Now,  Ma,  don't  take  on,"  pleaded  the  little 
dressmaker.  "  I — I  was  kep'.  I  won't  do  it 
ag'in.  .  .  .  Who's  moved  int'  Philura  Rice's 
house,  Ma?  I  d'clare  I  thought  nobody  'd  ever 
live  there  agin;  it's  s'  kind  o'  gloomy  with  all 
them  trees  in  th'  yard  an'  th'  ol'  rose  bushes  an' 
syringas  growed  mos'  t'  th'  secon'  story  win- 
dows." 

'  You  couldn't  guess  ef  you  was  t'  try  a 
year,"  crowed  Mrs.  Bennett.  Then  she  lowered 
her  voice  to  an  incriminating  whisper:  "  They're 
fur'ners;  an'  what's  more,  Til  bet  anythin'  they're 
Cath'lics !  " 

Miss  Malvina  had  gathered  her  cloak  and  with 
it  the  unfinished  costume,  imperfectly  concealed 
beneath  its  scant  folds. 


NEIGHBORS  43 

"  What  you  got  done  up  in  that  newspaper  s' 
keerful,  Malviny?"  demanded  the  old  lady,  sud- 
denly alert. 

"  Did  you  find  out  the  name  o'  them  strange 
folks,  Ma,  an'  where  they  come  from?"  parried 
her  daughter.  "  An'  how  d'  you  happen  t'  git  ac- 
quainted s'  suddin'?  " 

"  Oh,  the  girl  come  over  t'  borry  a  pitcher  o' 
drinkin'  water,  'n'  I  went  over  t'  show  her  how  t' 
start  the  pump.  .  .  .  What's  in  your  newspaper 
bundle,  Malviny?" 

Miss  Bennett  hastily  reconsidered  her  previous 
resolve. 

"  I  guess  I  may  's  well  tell  you,"  she  murmured 
resignedly.  "  This  'ere  is  a  cos-tume  f'r  Mis'  Dea- 
coness Buckthorn.  I  brought  it  home  t' — t'  finish 
off — b'  day's  work.  .  .  .  I'm  al'ays  glad  t'  'com- 
modate." 

'  Yes,  I  know  you  be,"  agreed  the  old  lady 
mordantly.  "  Well,  ef  Mis'  Deaconess  Buck- 
thorn's took  t'  doin'  her  own  dressmakin',  all  I 
got  t'  say  is  it's  about  the  most  onchristian  act — 
with  us  a-dependin'  on  sewin'  f'r  th'  vit'uls  we  put 
in  our  mouths.  .  .  .  The's  somebody  a-knockin' 
at  th'  front  door,  Malviny." 

Miss  Bennett  caught  up  the  kerosene  lamp  from 
the  table.  "  Mebbe  it's  somebody  come  t'  look 
over  th'  fashion  plates,"  she  said  hopefully.  "  You 


44  NEIGHBORS 

set  th'  kettle  over,  Ma,  V  put  that  johnny  cake  in 
th'  oven  t'  warm.  'S  soon  's  we've  et,  I  got  t' 
whirl  in  an'  finish  that  cos-tume  f'r  Mis'  Buck- 
thorn. She's  got  her  mind  made  up  t'  wear  it  Sun- 
day mornin'  t'  what  she  calls  d'vine  service,  though 
goodness  knows  why." 

Against  the  dim  background  of  swaying  trees 
the  open  front  door  revealed  a  small,  frightened 
face,  and  Miss  Bennett  became  hazily  aware  of 
wide  dark  eyes,  a  tumbled  mass  of  curls,  and  the 
scarlet  curve  of  parted  lips. 

"  You  pardon,  madame"  began  the  unexpected 
visitor,  "  but  my  fat'er — he  ees  become  sick,  of  a 
sudden.  Could  you — of  your  kin'ness,  chere 
madame — tell  me  of  a  docteur?  " 

"  Well,  I  want  t'  know !  "  ejaculated  Miss  Mal- 
vina,  shielding  the  wind-blown  lamp  with  the  crook 
of  her  elbow.  "  Are  you  the  strange  girl  jest 
moved  in  nex'  door?  Walk  right  in;  do!  " 

"One  t'ousand  t'anks,  madame;  but  it  ees  im- 
possible. My  fat'er  suffer " 

"  Jest  you  wait  a  minute  till  I  go  'n'  tell  Ma  'n' 
I'll  run  over  with  you,"  volunteered  Miss  Bennett 
eagerly.  "  Guess  I'd  better  stop  long  enough  t' 
ketch  up  a  shawl  'count  of  m'  neuralgy." 

But  the  girl  had  disappeared  when  Malvina, 
shawled  against  the  wind,  finally  returned  after 
appeasing  the  curiosity  of  Ma.  The  little  dress- 


NEIGHBORS  45 

maker  made  her  way  through  a  gap  in  the  ancient 
hedge  which  separated  the  two  yards,  and  finding 
the  side  door  of  the  old  Rice  house  ajar,  walked 
boldly  in.  By  the  wavering  light  of  a  candle  which 
merely  served  to  accentuate  the  gloom,  she  beheld 
a  dense  clutter  of  bales,  boxes,  and  the  stark  out- 
lines of  crated  furniture;  and  in  an  arm-chair 
drawn  close  to  an  open  window  the  huddled  figure 
of  a  man.  He  was  groaning  loudly,  monotonously, 
while  the  girl  besought  him  to  drink  from  the  cup 
she  was  holding  to  his  lips. 

"  Well,  f 'r  goodness  sake !  "  commented  Miss 
Malvina.  "  Ain't  this  a  pretty  kettle  o'  fish ! — your 
pa  sick,  an'  not  a  bed  t'  put  him  in.  ...  Say, 
what  you  givin'  him  in  that  cup?  Some  good  hot 
J'maica  jinger,  er  a  dose  of  Perry  Davis'  Pain- 
Killer  '11  generally  stop  th'  gripes — ef  that's  what 
ails  him.  .  .  .  Got  any  hot  water?" 

The  girl  shook  her  head. 

"  Ze  fire — eet  will  not  burn.  I  give  heem  wine ; 
but  he  refuse,  as  you  see." 

Miss  Malvina  considered,  her  head  on  one  side 
like  a  sagacious  sparrow. 

"  Well,"  she  said,  "  first  off,  I'll  dash  over  t' 
Lecty  Pratt's — she's  got  a  phone — an'  call  up  th' 
doctor.  Course  ef  't  was  Ma,  er  me,  I'd  take  Perry 
Davis;  but  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout  your  pa's 
constitution.  .  .  .  I'll  be  back  in  two  jerks  of  a 


46  NEIGHBORS       - 

lamb's  tail  an'  kindle  a  fire  in  th'  kitchen  stove. 
We  got  t'  hev  hot  water,  anyhow." 

The  doctor,  a  big,  gruff  man,  arrived  in  a  snort- 
ing little  automobile  before  Miss  Malvina  had 
succeeded  in  starting  a  reluctant  flame  in  the  long 
unused  stove. 

"No  wonder  it  won't  dror!"  muttered  Miss 
Malvina  indignantly.  "  Jes'  look  at  that  there 
stove-pipe — fairly  et  up  with  rust!  I'll  go  over 
an'  git  m'  oil  stove." 

Doctor  North  stared  thoughtfully  at  Miss  Mal- 
vina over  the  rim  of  his  spectacles,  as  if  the  sight 
of  the  little  dressmaker,  her  second-best  black  hair 
front  pushed  rakishly  to  one  side,  was  a  new  and 
surprising  one.  He  had  already  jammed  his 
hat  well  over  his  eyes  and  was  drawing  on  his 
gloves. 

Miss  Malvina  was  familiar  with  this  wordless 
verdict — as  were  most  Innisfield  folks,  to  whom 
the  good  doctor  stood  as  a  merciful  arbiter  of  fate 
between  the  here,  the  heretofore,  and  the  here- 
after. 

"  Then  he  ain't  dangerous,"  she  inferred. 

"  He's  hungry  and  done  up  with  moving," 
growled  the  doctor.  "  Neither  of  'em  have  eaten 
a  bite  since  morning.  Get  him  some  hot  tea  and 
a  boiled  egg — soft,  mind  you — and  a  good  thick 
slice  of  bread  and  butter.  Then  put  him  to  bed 


NEIGHBORS  47 

with  a  hot  brick  at  his  feet.    He'll  be  all  right  in 
the  morning." 

Miss  Malvina  cast  a  hasty  glance  about  the 
mouldy  old  kitchen. 

"Whatever  possest  'em  t'  light  down  here?" 
she  projected  after  the  doctor's  retreating  back. 
"  Seems  's  'o  th'  more  fur'n  folks  are  the  less  sense 
they  got.  Th'  simple  idee  o'  takin'  on  like  that 
over  an  empty  stomick!  " 

But  it  was  not  without  strenuous  and  manifold 
exertions  that  Miss  Malvina  succeeded  in  carrying 
out  Doctor  North's  simple  prescription.  There 
was  bread  in  the  house,  it  appeared,  a  queer  long 
crusty  loaf.  "  All  rind  an'  no  bread,"  pronounced 
the  little  dressmaker  disapprovingly.  Two  eggs, 
a  pinch  of  tea,  and  an  infinitesimal  pat  of  salty 
butter  she  abstracted  from  her  own  dwindling 
stores,  to  the  tune  of  Ma  Bennett's  reproaches. 

4  You're  more  'n  welcome,"  she  told  the  girl 
warmly.  "  We  shan't  never  miss  that  drorin'  o' 
tea,  ner  th'  eggs,  neither;  our  hen  laid  'em." 

But  the  invalid  opposed  a  fretful  torrent  of 
French  to  the  weak  decoction  of  green  tea  Miss 
Bennett  presently  offered  him. 

"  I  guess  he'll  make  out,"  was  her  well-founded 
opinion,  "  ef  he  c'n  gabble  that-a-way.  Is  he  sayin' 
anythin'  p'tic'lar?  Now,  you  git  this  'ere  egg 
down  him,  ef  you  kin.  Then  set  down  an'  swal- 


48  NEIGHBORS 

ler  a  bite  yourself — er  first  thing  we  know,  we'll 
hev  you  keeled  up." 

The  girl  looked  sweetly  puzzled. 

"  I  know  not  w'at  is  '  keeled  ',"  she  said,  "  but 
first  I  mus'  prepare  ze  vin  brule;  eet  ees  zat  my 
fat'er  reques' — not  being  accustom  to  drink  the 
vert — but  t'anking  you  one  mille  time,  chere 
madame." 

"  I  said  you  was  more  'n  welcome,  bein'  neigh- 
bors, though  fur'n,"  chirped  the  little  dressmaker. 
"  But  I  ain't  what  you  might  call  a  madam — not 
bein'  a  married  woman,  nor  yet  wantin'  t'  be.  So 
I'll  trouble  you  t'  call  me  Miss  Malvina  Bennett. 
...  I  s'pose  you  know  it's  downright  wicked  t' 
put  th'  bottle  t'  y'r  neighbor's  lips — let  alone  your 
pa's,"  she  added  sternly,  as  the  girl  set  a  basin  of 
wine  over  the  oil  burner.  "  I  guess  we  '11  hev  t' 
git  a  white  ribbin  pinned  ont'  you.  .  .  .  Mebbe 
it's  a  leadin'  o'  Providence  you  come  to  dwell  in 
our  midst." 

The  girl,  understanding  merely  that  some  sort 
of  introduction  had  been  offered,  showed  the  edges 
of  her  white  teeth  in  a  shy  smile. 

"  My  fat'er  ees  too  ill  for  polite,"  she  said 
gently;  "  but  you  will  permit  me  to  acquaint  to  you 
mon  pere,  M'sieu'  Etienne  Desaye,  Mees — 
Mees " 

"  Malvina  Bennett,"  supplied  the  Good  Samar- 


NEIGHBORS  49 

itan,  all  at  once  aware  of  her  false  front,  which 
had  slid  down  over  one  ear,  revealing  a  mass  of 
curling  white  hair,  wind  blown  into  a  maze  of 
glistening  silver.  "  I  guess  I  look  like  a  fright," 
she  added,  as  the  man's  dark  eyes  suddenly  fas- 
tened themselves  upon  her. 

He  had  struggled  to  his  feet,  and  was  bowing 
low.  Then,  before  she  had  become  aware  of  his 
further  intent,  he  had  taken  her  hand  in  both 
his  own  and  raised  it  to  his  lips,  murmuring  broken 
words  of  gratitude. 

"  Me,  my  name  is  Madeleine,"  the  girl  offered, 
with  a  quaint  little  curtsy.  "  I  'ave  mos'  g-reat 
'appiness  to  know  you,  Mees  Malvina." 

"  My  stars !  "  gasped  the  astounded  Miss  Ben- 
nett, "  I  guess  it's  high  time  your  pa  was  got  t' 
bed,  b'fore  he  gits  t'  ravin'.  I'll  jes'  run  over 
home  an'  fetch  a  hot  brick,  like  the  doctor  said." 

She  was  glad  to  hide  her  agitation  in  the 
friendly  darkness  outside. 

'  T'  think  o'  that  fur'n  man  actooally  a-kissin' 
my  hand,"  she  said  to  herself  as  she  slipped 
through  the  hedge.  "  I  never  beared  o'  sech  a 
thing!  ...  I  wouldn't  das  t'  tell  Ma!  An'  him 
a-suppin'  down  hot  wine,  like  't  was  a  cup  o'  tea. 
I  guess  you  see  your  duty  cut  out  f'r  you,  Malvina 
Bennett.  Mebbe  you'll  find  you  c'n  exert  an  in- 
fluence 's  well  's  other  folks — more  'special  when 


50  NEIGHBORS 

th'  op'tunity's  plumped  right  down  in  your  side- 
yard,  so  t'  say." 

It  was  a  singularly  flushed  and  complacent  Miss 
Malvina  who  finally  sat  down  to  a  belated  repast 
of  dry  corn-bread  and  boiled  tea.  Ma  Bennett,  it 
appeared,  felt  herself  justified  in  displaying  a 
large  assortment  of  injured  feelings. 

"  I  got  sech  a  nawful  sinkin'  at  th'  pit  o'  my 
stumick,"  she  complained,  "  I  can't  eat — V  all 
from  waitin'  on  you,  Malviny." 

"  Swaller  down  some  hot  tea,  first  off,  Ma,"  ad- 
vised her  daughter;  "  it'll  chirk  you  up.  That  was 
jes'  what  ailed  him;  but  he  wouldn't  drink  his  tea, 
after  I  fixed  it  all  nice  f'r  him  with  milk  an'  sugar. 
An'  you'd  ought  t'  'a'  beared  the  heathen  lingo  he 
got  off !  But  she  said  he  wanted  hot  wine.  Did 
you  ever?" 

"  Ef  Mis'  Deaconess  Buckthorn  was  t'  hear  tell 
o'  that  she'd  take  him  in  a  blue  pledge  card  t' 
sign,"  said  Ma.  "  They're  gittin'  all  they  can  t' 
trim  up  th'  church  Tem'rance  Sunday." 

"  Looks  reel  tasty,  too,  all  them  blue  an'  red 
cards  strung  up  on  yellow  cord,"  allowed  her 
daughter.  "  But  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  hev  Mis'  Buck- 
thorn buttin'  in  on  this  job.  I've  took  it  upon 
myself,  Ma.  .  .  .  An' don't  you  tell  nobody  what 
I  said,  Ma.  I'm  reel  earnest  t'  do  some  work  f  r 
th'  Lord.  Mebbe  I  c'd  git  a  star  er  two  in  my 


NEIGHBORS  51 

crown  that-a-way;  an'  cordin'  t'  her  own  tell,  Mis' 
Buckthorn  '11  be  s'  trimmed  up  with  'em  she'll  beat 
th'  'Postle  Paul.  .  .  .  Now,  ef  you'll  rense  up 
these  few  dishes,  Ma,  I'll  whirl  in  an'  sew  's  hard  's 
I  kin  till  midnight.  I  want  t'  git  an  hour  in  th' 
mornin'  t'  help  them  folks  nex'  door  git  settled.  I 
don't  b'lieve  that  house  's  hed  a  broom  laid  to  it  in 
two  years." 

"  Oh,  yes,  't  has,  Malviny,"  contradicted  the  old 
lady.  "  First  thing  I  see  was  Deacon  Scrimger — I 
guess  he  had  th'  rentin'  of  it — he  come  along  in  his 
wagon  an'  hitched,  'long  about  two  o'clock.  I  seen 
him  go  in  th'  front  door.  After  a  spell  he  carries 
out  three  kitchen  cheers  an'  a  lookin'-glass,  'n'  like 
that,  an'  puts  'em  in  his  wagon.  I  s'pose  likely  they 
was  left  in  th'  house  when  Philura  Rice  moved 
over  t'  th'  parsonage  after  she  married  the  min- 
ister. Anyhow,  he  kep'  a-bringin'  out  ol'  broken 
stuff  till  th'  was  quite  a  wagon-load.  'N'  after  that 
I  seen  him  take  a  broom  'n'  dus'-pan " 

Mrs.  Bennett  interrupted  the  flow  of  her  re- 
marks to  carry  the  milk  pitcher  to  the  pantry. 
When  she  returned  her  daughter  was  surveying 
the  unfinished  costume  she  had  removed  from  its 
wrappings  and  spread  upon  a  chair.  Poignant  dis- 
may was  depicted  upon  Miss  Malvina's  small,  anx- 
ious face. 

"  Did  y'  ever  see  th'  like  o'  that?  "  she  was  say- 


52  NEIGHBORS 

ing  to  herself.  "  Not  one  o'  them  seams  bound — 
n'r  even  overcast;  'n'  you  c'n  see  where  it's  pretty 
nigh  busted  out  a'ready  in  the  back  o'  th'  arm- 
sizes,  jes'  from  tryin'  on.  When  you  think  o' 
th'  way  Mis'  Buckthorn  leans  forward  on  the  pew- 
back  durin'  th'  long  prayer  it's  easy  t'  see  what'd 
happen.  My  land !  ef  ever  I  see  a  dress  throwed 
together — 'n'  that  there  madam  calls  it  a  robe!  " 

"  Malviny  Bennett,"  shrilled  the  old  lady  ex- 
citedly, "  where  'd  you  git  that  dress?  " 

"  It  was  give  t'  me  t'  finish  off,  Ma,"  said 
Miss  Malvina,  realizing  the  maternal  presence 
too  late.  "  I'm  goin'  t'  git  good  money  f'r  doin' 
it,  paid  right  down  in  my  fist.  But  I  don't  know 
what  t'  do  about  them  seams.  They  won't  last 
out  one  wearin'.  ...  Be  keerful,  Ma,  I  don1 
know  es  it  '11  stan'  much  handlin'." 

The  old  lady,  her  thin  lips  puckered  into  a  saga- 
cious knot,  was  peering  at  the  creation  of  Mrs. 
Hobbs'  genius. 

"  Do  you  mean  t*  tell  me,  Malviny  Bennett, 
that  Mis'  Deaconess  Buckthorn  done  that?  An' 
that  she  give  it  t'  you  t'  finish  off?" 

"  I  ain't  goin'  t'  tell  you  nothin','  said  Miss 
Malvina  with  a  fine  show  of  firmness.  "  'Tain't 
none  of  our  bizniz  who  done  it,  Ma.  All  I  know 
is  I've  got  t'  put  my  hand  t'  th'  plough  an'  do 
somethin'  t'  keep  that  dress-wai-st  from  bustin'  out 


NEIGHBORS  53 

in  church  disgraceful.  Tell  you  what,  I'm  goin' 
t'  tape  them  arm-sizes  an'  double  stitch  'em.  An 
angel  f'om  heaven  couldn't  do  no  more." 

The  loud  whir  of  Miss  Malvina's  sewing-ma- 
chine drowned  a  highly  colored  description  of  her 
childhood,  going  back  to  the  notable  day  when 
Ma  Bennett  had  seen  her  duty  and  done  it,  to 
the  extent  of  snipping  her  daughter's  youthful 
tongue  with  a  pair  of  sharp  scissors  "  f'r  tellin'  a 
wicked  lie." 

Miss  Malvina  had  carefully  laid  side  her  sec- 
ond best  false  front  and  her  abundant  white  hair 
curled  recklessly  over  her  small  head  as  she  ripped 
and  snipped  and  stitched,  being  careful  to  pre- 
serve the  astonishing  ensemble  of  the  purple  and 
brown  costume. 

"  It's  enough  t'  make  a  cat  laugh,"  she  mut- 
tered to  herself,  when  at  midnight  the  striped 
tabby  awoke  to  stretch  her  pink  jaws  to  their 
widest  and  blink  sleepily  at  the  finished  work  Miss 
Malvina  was  folding  away. 

"  I  done  an  honest  half  day  b'  th'  clock,"  the 
little  dressmaker  was  telling  herself,  as  she  crept 
wearily  up  to  bed.  "  'N'  that'll  give  me  time 
t'  do  f'r  them— ef  they'll  let  me." 

She  paused  in  the  act  of  drawing  down  her 
blind  to  gaze  at  the  house  across  the  hedge,  and 
thrilled  at  sight  of  a  feeble  gleam  of  light  in  one 


54  NEIGHBORS 

of  the  second  story  windows  of  Philura  Pettibone's 
old  house. 

"  It  seems  kind  o'  nice  V  cheerful  t'  hev  folks 
livin'  over  there  agin,"  she  murmured,  "  even 
ef  they  be  fur'n.  .  .  .  An'  t'  think  o'  him  a- 
kissin'  my  han' — like  I  was  a  queen  in  a  hist'ry 
book." 


VI 

MRS.  SILAS  PETTIBONE'S  baby,  though 
as  yet  blissfully  ignorant  of  the  fact,  was 
quite  as  much  in  the  Innisfield  public  eye 
as  Woodrow  Wilson  or  the  Duchess  of  Marl- 
borough.     Indeed,  for  the  first  weeks  of  his  life 
he  might  be  said  to  outstrip  either  of  the  afore- 
mentioned personages  in  the  interest  and  excite- 
ment he  stirred  up. 

As  Miss  Malvina  Bennett  had  foreseen,  no 
sooner  had  the  news  of  his  arrival  perco- 
lated through  the  village  telephone  system — a 
process  materially  assisted  in  its  onward  course 
by  the  prevalent  party-wire — than  the  shrill 
door-bell  of  the  parsonage  began  to  announce 
numerous  visitors  from  every  quarter  of  the 
parish.  It  was  almost  as  thrilling  as  elec- 
tion day  or  a  church  fair.  Old  neighbors 
met  at  the  gate  or  on  the  minister's  front  porch 
and  paused  to  exchange  spicy  reminiscences  of 
the  past,  mingled  with  comments  and  prophecies 
concerning  the  new  baby,  whom  the  female  portion 
of  the  community  were  privileged  to  look  upon, 

55 


56  NEIGHBORS 

as  he  reposed  in  his  old-fashioned  cradle  in  the 
parsonage  "  spare  room." 

The  trained  nurse  from  Boston,  in  her  white 
uniform  and  stiffly  starched  cap,  opposed  an 
equally  stiff  resistance  to  the  tide  of  parochial 
curiosity  which  sought  to  overflow  into  the  cham- 
ber beyond,  where  lay  the  baby's  mother. 

But  when  Mrs.  Deaconess  Buckthorn,  happily 
recovered  from  her  late  attack  of  neuritis, 
mounted  the  stairs,  it  was  felt  that  all  barriers 
must  fall. 

"  I  shall  see  our  paster's  wife,  of  course,"  she 
had  announced  to  a  ring  of  attendant  satellites 
who  followed  her  progress  with  eager  interest. 
"  As  president  of  our  Ladies'  Aid  and  Mis- 
sion-ary  So-ciety  it  is  my  priv'lege,  an'  as  the 
Sab-bath  School  teacher  of  Philura  Rice  it  is  my 
sacred  right.' 

Providentially,  or  otherwise,  the  nurse  from 
Boston  had  descended  to  the  kitchen,  where  Mrs. 
Wessells  was  thoughtfully  absorbing  a  cup  of  tea 
in  an  effort  to  '  keep  up  her  stren'th  'till  she  could 
rub  off  a  few  pieces  '  of  the  weekly  ironing;  there- 
fore no  stiffly  starched  presence  opposed  Mrs. 
Buckthorn's  dignified  progress  as  she  sailed  past 
the  open  door  of  the  room  where  the  baby — still 
unconscious  of  the  greatness  thrust  upon  him — 
was  holding  court. 


NEIGHBORS  57 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  looking  very  small  and  weak, 
as  she  reposed  among  her  white  pillows,  opened 
her  eyes  with  a  start  upon  the  large,  somber  figure 
standing  at  the  foot  of  her  bed.  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
was  gazing  down  at  her  with  the  dubious  mixture 
of  curiosity  and  resignation  the  minister's  wife  had 
noticed  at  uncounted  funerals,  when  the  wearer 
of  that  large  fortress-like  bonnet  bristling  with 
time-defying  feathers,  advanced  to  "  view  the  re- 
mains." She  gasped  a  little  and  glanced  about 
rather  wildly  for  the  soothing  white  linen  pres- 
ence, which  she  remembered  had  left  the  room 
only  a  moment  before  in  quest  of  gruel. 

"  Well,  Phi-lura,"  intoned  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "  I 
have  seen  your  ba-by  an'  I  felt  I  could  not  leave 
the  pars'nage  without  a  word  with  you.  .  .  . 
You  are  lookin'  as  well  's  c'n  be  expected.  How 
do  you  feel?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  reflected  vaguely.  She  had  not 
thought  much  about  her  feelings  since  the  baby 
came.  It  was  enough  to  lie  quiet  and  happy 
in  the  still  room,  and  at  intervals  find  the  baby's 
downy  little  head  and  questing  mouth  against  her 
breast.  She  smiled. 

"  I  am — I  think  I  feel  very — well — thank 
you." 

"  Let  me  see,"  pursued  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
strongly.  "  The  ba-by  is  a  week  old,  I  be-lieve?  " 


5  8  NEIGHBORS 

"  A  week — to-morrow,"  corrected  the  baby's 
mother. 

"  When  my  M'ree  Is'bel  was  a  week  old  I  sat 
up  in  a  straight-backed  chair  an'  read  my  Bi-ble 
f'r  an  hour,"  stated  Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "  An'  that 
same  day  I  done  the  family  mendin',  th'  Lord 
helpin'  me,  Deacon  Buckthorn's  socks  an'  th' 
boys'  knee-pants  'n'  all.  The  day  after  that  I  was 
out  in  th'  kitchen  attendin'  t'  my  house-hold 
dooties,  es  usual.  /  never  indulged  fleshly  lusts 
b'  remainin'  in  bed  t'  be  waited  on  by  a  nurse  from 
Bos-ton." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  trembled  visibly  and  sought  for 
her  handkerchief.  She  was  still  very  weak. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  Louisa  Wessells  is 
camped  down  in  your  kitchen,  doin'  th'  house- 
work reg'lar  b'  th'  day,"  pursued  her  visitor  in- 
exorably. "  B'sides  that  woman  drest  in  white 
that  spen's  all  her  time  a-waitin'  on  you.  .  .  . 
It  mus'  be  a  nawful  expense  t'  our  paster;  but 
p'rhaps  you  haven't  thought  of  that.  .  .  .  How 
much  do  you  pay  your  trained  nurse  b'  th'  week, 
Phi-lura?" 

Mrs.  Pettibone  gazed  piteously  past  her  inquis- 
itor. She  was  sure  she  heard  the  baby  crying.  She 
raised  herself  on  one  elbow  the  better  to  listen. 

"  'Twon't  hurt  him  none  t'  cry,"  said  Mrs, 
Buckthorn.  "  I  guess  th'  ladies  's  been  weighio.' 


NEIGHBORS  59 

him.  I  hope  you  an'  Mr.  Pettibone  wa'n't  party 
to  it,  Phi-lura,  but  Malvina  Bennett's  b'en  a-tellin' 
all  over  this  town  that  the  ba-by  weighed  nine 
pounds  when  he  was  born.  It's  a  nawful  thing, 
Philura,  fer  an  im-mortal  soul  t'  start  out  on  its 
journey  through  this  vale  of  tears  with  a  wicked 
lie  'round  its  neck.  If  you  or  our  paster  knew — 
an'  you  must  'a'  known — he  weighed  only  six  'n' 
a  quarter,  with  all  his  clo'es  on — it  was  your 
dooty " 

"  He's  been  gaining,"  broke  in  Mrs.  Pettibone 
eagerly.  "Miss  Sedgewick  weighed  him  this 
morning,  and  she  said " 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  wagged  her  feathers  omi- 
nously. 

"  I'm  afraid  not,  Phi-lura.  Your  child  looks 
very  feeble  t'  me.  Nothin'  like  mine  at  the  same 
age.  An'  th's  others  thinks  so,  too.  .  .  .  You'd 
ought  t'  be  prepared  t'  bow  your  neck  submissive 
t'  th'  Lord's  will,  Phi-lura." 

"  I  am,"  declared  Mrs.  Pettibone.  "  Didn't 
God  give  me  that  baby?  " 

A  delicate  crimson  had  begun  to  burn  in  her 
thin  cheeks;  her  blue  eyes  under  their  childish 
brows  gazed  up  defiantly  at  Mrs.  Buckthorn's 
granite  front. 

'  Take  care,  Phi-lura !  "  warned  that  lady  in  a 
hollow  voice.  "  Your  idees  on  sacred  subjec's  is 


60  NEIGHBORS 

gettin'  t'  be  pretty  well  known  in  this  'ere  com- 
munity. I'm  sure  I  don't  know  what  we're  a- 
comin'  to  when  our  paster's  wife  sets  herself  up 
as  understandin'  th'  ways  of  the  Almighty  better 
'an  the  creeds." 

"  I'm  thankful  God's  ways  are  better  than  the 
creeds,"  willfully  misconstrued  the  small  lady 
from  amongst  her  pillows. 

"What  did  you  say,  Phi-lura?"  demanded 
Mrs.  Buckthorn  sternly.  u  Would  you  be  willin' 
t'  repeat  that,  a-standin'  up  amongst  the  goats 
b'fore  th'  great  white  throne?  Ans-wer  me!  " 

But  Mrs.  Pettibone,  harassed  by  the  mingled 
sounds  of  her  visitor's  nasal  tones  and  the  con- 
tinued wailing  of  the  baby,  seemed  incapable  of  a 
reply.  She  began  to  cry  instead. 

"  I  see  that  an  awakened  conscience  is  doin'  its 
bles-sed  work  in  your  heart,  Phi-lura,"  pursued 
her  tormentor.  "Don't  hender  it!  ...  An' 
that  r'minds  me,  I  fail  t'  see  your  Bi-ble  anywheres 
about.  I  thought,  of  course,  I  sh'd  find  it  right 
t'  han'  in  this  house.  I  sh'd  love  t'  read  a  few 
words  from  th'  Psa'ms  an'  engage  in  prayer  be- 
fore I  leave.  You  need  it." 

In  pursuance  of  this  pious  project  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn began  rummaging  busily  among  the  various 
articles  on  Mrs.  Pettibone's  bureau. 

"  Huh !  a  nursin'-bottle !    I  thought  you'd  have 


NEIGHBORS  61 

t'  come  t'  it — at  your  age.  .  .  .  Well,  I  declare ! 
I  guess  very  few  of  us  'd  think  we  c'd  afford  a 
large  flask  of  cologne — with  the  world  in  need, 
as  never  b'fore.  .  .  .  Whis-key — as  sure  as  I 
live !  What  does  this  mean  in  th'  home  of  our 
paster  ?  My !  my !  What  a  terrible  example  t'  set 
b'fore  th'  youth  of  our  community!  ...  I  shall 
cert'nly  speak  my  mind  t'  Mis-ter  Pettibone  before 
I  leave  this  house.  .  .  .  An'  still  I  find  no 
Bi-ble.  .  .  .  But  perhaps  your  nurse  from  Bos- 
ton has  concealed  it  in  one  of  th'  bureau-drawers. 
.  .  .  What  a  sad  story  I  shall  have  t'  tell  if  I 

cannot  find  that  b-lessed  book Well,  I  mus' 

say  I  am  sur-prised  an'  grieved,  Phi-lura.  Ex- 
travagance an'  display  are  surely  out  of  place  in 
th'  pars'nage — if  nowhere  else.  .  .  .  Comfort 
an'  cleanliness  do  not  call  for  embroidery  ner 
lace,  such  as  I  see  on  these  'ere  garments — an' 
still  no  Bi-ble !  But  I  do  find  here  '  Holt  on  the 
Care  an'  Feedin'  of  Infants.'  Is  this  a  proper  sub- 
stitute for  your  Bi-ble,  Phi-lura?" 

Mrs.  Pettibone  had  hidden  her  face  in  her 
pillow.  She  was  thinking  confusedly  that  she 
must  not  listen  to  what  Mrs.  Buckthorn  was  say- 
ing; that  she  must  be  calm — quite  calm  and  tran- 
quil, otherwise  the  baby  might  have  the  colic. 
Miss  Sedgewick  had  said  so,  and  Miss  Sedgewick 
knew. 


62  NEIGHBORS 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  had  carried  on  her  pious  quest 
as  far  as  the  wash-stand,  when  she  was  deflected 
from  her  purpose  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  a 
tall,  erect  person,  panoplied  in  spotless  white 
and  bearing  a  napkined  tray,  in  the  midst  of 
which  was  set  forth  a  steaming  bowl.  This  in- 
dividual spoke  no  word,  but  there  was  that  in  the 
militant  gleam  of  her  eyes  which  caused  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  to  hastily  abandon  her  self-imposed 
task. 

"  I  was  jest  a-lookin'  fer  our  paster's  wife's 
Bi-ble,"  she  explained.  But  her  voice  had  some- 
how lost  its  fearsome  quality.  "  I  didn't  see  it 
nowheres  around  on  th'  mantle-shelf  ner  th' 
table." 

"  No,"  confirmed  the  white  linen  presence 
briskly.  "  I  took  all  the  books  downstairs  the 
first  thing.  They  harbor  dust  and  germs." 

She  held  the  door  invitingly  wide. 

"  I  don't  allow  visitors,"  she  added.  "  You 
may  tell  the  others." 

The  wailing  baby  was  being  vigorously  trotted 
upon  Mrs.  Scrimger's  knee,  while  an  admiring 
and  resourceful  audience  looked  on,  when  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  reappeared,  much  ruffled  as  to  her 
spirits. 

"Did  you  see  Philura?" 

"How  does  she  look?'* 


NEIGHBORS  63 

"  I  wonder  if  /  might  step  in,  f'r  just  a  min- 
ute," uprose  in  unison. 

"  That  woman  from  Bos-ton,"  began  the  wife 
of  the  senior  deacon,  u  is  a  child  of  Be-lial,  if 

ever  I  see  one.    She  actooally  had  the  brass  t'  tell 
mf " 

tfltC 

With  a  sudden  swoop  of  ample  white  draperies 
the  woman  from  Boston  descended  upon  the 
group  of  matrons  and  salvaged  the  baby. 

"  You'll  have  to  excuse  me,  ladies,  but  it  makes 
my  patient  nervous  to  hear  him  cry,"  she  vouch- 
safed over  her  shoulder,  as  she  bore  away  the 
small  bundle  of  lawn  and  flannel.  There  fol- 
lowed the  sound  of  a  door  firmly  closed. 

"  Well !  did  you  ever?  "  Mrs.  Scrimger  wanted 
to  know. 

"  Ain't  we  stylish !  "  contributed  Miss  Electa 
Pratt,  with  a  girlish  giggle.  "  I  ain't  said  any- 
thin'  t'  you  ladies  about  it  b'fore,  but  now  'at 
ma's  passed  away  I  b'en  thinkin'  of  takin'  up 
nursin',  myself,  an'  I  ofered  t'  do  f'r  Philura 
'n'  th'  minister — pourin'  his  tea  'n'  like  that — 
f'r  nothin'.  But  it  seems  /  wasn't  good  enough 
f'r  her.  She  said  Mis-ter  Pettibone  wanted  a 
trained  nurse." 

"  All  of  us  ladies  c'd  'a'  took  turns,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "  The  thought  'd  come  t'  me. 
An'  what  a  blessin'  our  conse-crated  zeal  might 


64  NEIGHBORS 

V  proved  in  this  'ere  household!  Prayer  V 
praise  from  mornin'  till  night,  a-goin'  up  like  an 
altar  o'  sacrifice." 

"  Maybe  it  would  have  turned  out  to  be  one," 
mused  Mrs.  Puffer,  who  had  just  run  over  with 
an  extra  crib-blanket. 

But  when  pressed  for  an  explanation,  the  little 
woman  blushed  very  pink  indeed  and  said  she 
guessed  she  didn't  mean  anything — much.  She 
added  that  being  so  constantly  with  the  children 
made  her  sort  of  absent-minded. 

That  same  afternoon,  as  was  his  custom,  the 
Reverend  Silas  Pettibone  emerged  from  his  study, 
where  he  had  spent  the  morning  endeavoring 
to  wrest  the  meaning  from  a  cryptic  Pauline  say- 
ing, and  ascended  to  his  wife's  room. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  he  began,  after  kissing  the 
shining  pale  face  upturned  to  his,  "  I  hear  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  called  to  see  you  this  morning.  She 
stopped  in  the  study  on  her  way  out.  ...  I 
was  rather  sorry, — I— er — supposed  Miss  Sedge- 
wick  had — er — interdicted " 

The  nurse,  who  was  engaged  in  folding  large 
squares  of  white  cheese-cloth  into  infinitesimal 
triangles,  turned  quickly  around. 

"  The  woman  sneaked  in,  sir,  when  my  back 
was  turned  for  an  instant,"  she  said.  "  I  don't 
know  what  she  did  to  put  my  patient  all  in  a 


NEIGHBORS  65 

tremble ;  but  I  shall  turn  the  key  in  the  lock  after 
this  when  I  go  down  to  the  kitchen.  .  .  .  You 
won't  leave  her,  sir,  while  I  run  out  for  half  an 
hour?  If  I  thought  you  would " 

Mr.  Pettibone  was  instant  and  earnest  in  avow- 
ing his  purpose  of  guarding  the  sick-room  against 
further  intrusion. 

But  still  the  cautious  Miss  Sedgewick  hesitated. 

"Somebody  might  call  to  see  you,  sir;  and 
while  you  were  downstairs  take  advantage " 

"  You  could  put  the  baby  on  the  bed,  Silas,  and 
lock  the  door,"  suggested  Mrs.  Pettibone. 

There  was  an  eager  gleam  in  her  eyes 
which  again  halted  the  departing  footsteps  of 
authority. 

"  Better  leave  him  just  where  he  is,"  the  nurse 
said  firmly.  "  He  is  not  hungry  and  he  is  per- 
fectly comfortable.  If  he  should  cry,  please  re- 
member that  a  certain  amount  of  crying  is  good 
for  a  baby." 

Her  clear  eyes  fixed  upon  the  minister  ap- 
peared to  demand  some  sort  of  guarantee  of 
obedience. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone.  "  Quite 
right.  I  will — er — leave  the  infant  exactly  as  he 
is  now  placed  in  that  crib.  I  see  you  have  him 
very  firmly  immeshed — perhaps  I  might  better 
say — er — constricted  beneath  his  bed  coverings. 


66  NEIGHBORS 

.  .  .  I — er — beg  your  pardon.  I  should  have 
said " 

"  The  infant  is  quite  comfortable,"  Miss 
Sedgewick  repeated  with  a  touch  of  asperity. 
"  Do  not  disturb  him  during  my  absence." 

The  sound  of  her  firm  footsteps  retreating 
down  the  passage,  followed  later  by  a  rustling 
descent  of  the  stair  and  the  distant  closing  of  the 
front  door  marked  a  period  during  which  Mr. 
Pettibone  sat  by  his  wife's  side  decorously  perus- 
ing a  work  on  the  Social  Conscience,  while  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  very  demure  and  bright  eyed,  watched 
a  sunbeam  coquetting  with  the  muslin  curtains. 

"  Now,  Silas,"  she  said  softly. 

Mr.  Pettibone  glanced  down  at  her  with  a 
humorous  smile. 

"  But,  my  dear  Philura,"  he  murmured,  "  that 
excellent  person  extracted  an  actual  promise  from 
me  to-day.  Possibly — er — she  suspects  us  of 
collusion.  I  fear  I  didn't  get  the  trick  of  that 
tightly  banded  sheet  over  the  infant's  body.  Er 
• — let  me  read  you  an  illuminating  passage  I  have 
just  lighted  upon." 

"  Oh,  Silas,  please — I  haven't  half  looked  at 
him  yet.  I  feel  exactly  as  if  he — was  her  baby. 
She  won't  allow  me  to  hold  him.  .  .  .  Anyway, 
we  can't  afford  to  keep  her  any  longer,  with  Mrs. 
Wessells  in  the  kitchen.  I  must  begin  to  take 


NEIGHBORS  67 

care  of  him  myself,  and — and  do  things.  Please 
let  me!" 

Mr.  Pettibone  ruffled  his  iron-gray  hair  with  an 
impatient  hand. 

"  I  should  like  to  give  utterance  to  something 
— er — forceful  concerning  Mrs.  Buckthorn,"  he 
began.  "  Of  course  I  can  guess  the  sort  of  thing 
she  said  to  you  this  morning;  but " 

"  It  was  all  true,  I'm  afraid,"  murmured  his 
wife.  "  I  can't  help  feeling  guilty  and  extrava- 
gant when  I  think  of  what  I  am — costing." 

Mr.  Pettibone  arose  and  very  deliberately  tip- 
toed his  way  across  the  room  to  the  crib,  where 
lay  his  son  peacefully  asleep. 

"  I  am  about  to  perjure  myself,  I  fear,  but  I 
think  we  need  to  discuss  this  subject  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  entire  family." 

With  this  remark  he  skillfully  extricated  the 
infant  from  his  well-ordered  blankets  and  bore 
him  to  the  bed,  where  he  deposited  him,  all  pink 
and  squirming,  at  Mrs.  Pettibone's  side. 

"  Oh,  Silas!"  she  cried  in  an  ecstasy.  "I'm 
afraid  you've  waked  him  up!  ...  Do  look  at 
his  eyes!  .  .  .  He's  looking  straight  at  you. 
...  I  wonder  if  his  eyes  will  be  dark  like 
yours?  They're  blue  now — just  see!  And  his 
hair  is  curly — right  on  top  of  his  head.  .  .  . 
Oh,  you  darling!  " 


68  NEIGHBORS 

"  Speaking  of  expense,"  pursued  Mr.  Pettibone 
logically.  "  He's  worth  all  he  cost — isn't  he? — 
to  you  and  to  me.  .  .  .  And  I  shall  never  for- 
get that  he  nearly  cost  you  your  life.  ...  If 
I  had  lost  you— 

Mrs.  Pettibone  hid  her  eyes  in  the  baby's  neck. 

"  I  had  forgotten  it,  already,"  she  murmured. 

It  seemed  a  sacrilege  to  mention  anything  so 
sordid  as  money  at  such  a  moment,  but  after  a 
period  of  blissful  contemplation  the  minister  pro- 
duced a  roll  of  soiled  bills  from  his  pocket. 

"  Filthy  lucre,"  he  announced,  "  amounting  to 
one  hundred  and  fifty-three  dollars." 

"Why,  Silas!" 

"  On  account  of  arrears  on  my  salary,"  he  ex- 
ulted. "  Our  good  brother,  George  Trimmer, 
handed  it  to  me  last  evening  after  prayer-meeting. 
He  tells  me  he  hopes  to  have  the  full  amount  by 
the  end  of  next  month." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  drew  the  blankets  softly  about 
the  baby  with  gentle  little  pats  and  cuddles. 

"  I'm  ashamed  of  myself,"  she  said. 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  ought  to  have  known  the  money 
would  come.  ...  I  ought  never  to  doubt  or 
be  afraid  of  anything,  now  that  I  have  you — and 
him." 

"  No,  you  ought  not,"  he  agreed,  a  humorous 


NEIGHBORS  69 

smile  touching  his  grave  lips.  "  And  you  mustn't. 
Do  you  know  I  find  myself  singularly  dependent 
on  you,  Miss  Philura,  for  my  spiritual  uplift?" 

Whereat  they  both  laughed  in  memory  of  old 
days,  happily  past  now  and  well-nigh  forgotten. 

"  Another  proof  that  a  beneficent  Providence 
has  not  failed  us,  my  dear,  appears  in  the  fact 
that  your  house  is  rented  at  last." 

11  Oh,  Silas!  "  she  said  again.    "  Really?  " 

"  Indubitably,  and  your  new  tenants  have  paid 
down  their  first  month's  rent  in  advance.  Here 
it  is,  less  Deacon  Scrimger's  lawful  commission 
and  the  fee  to  the  Boston  agent,  who  really  dis- 
posed of  the  house  for  you." 

He  paused  to  observe  his  wife's  face,  glorified 
with  a  look  of  rapture  which  the  insignificant 
sum  of  money  he  placed  in  her  hand  failed  to 
explain. 

"  It  is  for  the  baby,"  she  said,  "  out  of  the 
Encircling  Good!" 


VII 

THE  idea  that  all  good  things  come  from 
the  unseen  Beneficence  we  call  God  has 
been  slow  in  making  its  way  in  the  world. 
Like  all  ultimate  truth  it  is  too  large  to  be  seen 
in  its  entirety — too  far-reaching  to  be  appre- 
ciated by  beings  engrossed  in  the  small  affairs  of 
daily  living.  So,  although  Miss  Malvina  Bennett 
had  caught  more  than  an  occasional  gleam  of  the 
universal  effulgence,  she  was  none  the  less  per- 
turbed when  a  vigorous  shaking  of  a  lank  flour- 
bag  failed  to  dislodge  more  than  a  scant  cupful. 

"  Can't  set  no  bread  t'-day,"  she  muttered. 
"  'N'  Ma  hates  store  bread  like  pison."  A  like 
thorough  and  drastic  investigation  revealed  the 
emptiness  of  the  various  showy  packages  ranged 
along  her  pantry  shelves. 

"Well,  I  d'clare,"  muttered  Miss  Malvina> 
"  I  ain't  never  been  s'  put  to  it  since  I  begun  to 
sew  f'r  a  livin'.  I  don't  wonder  Ma's  fractious. 
She  needs  a  good  meal  o'  warm  vittles  t'  liven 
her  up,  'n'  th'  ain't  a  bean  o'  coffee,  neither." 

Hastily  she  reviewed  the  meager  list  of  her  pos- 
sible resources.  Their  solitary  hen  when  in- 

70 


NEIGHBORS  71 

spected  ruffled  her  feathers  sulkily;  the  light  rime 
of  snow  on  the  ground  outside  had  evidently  fur- 
nished no  incentive  to  lay. 

"  You  need  comp'ny,"  said  Miss  Malvina  sym- 
pathizingly.  "  I'm  a-goin'  t'  let  you  set  jes'  soon 
's  I  c'n  afford  a  dozen  reel  eggs,  then  we'll  hev 
some  nice  young  pullets,  come  fall,  'n'  mebbe  a 
reel  han'some  rooster  t'  crow  mornin's." 

With  this  vague  promise  she  scattered  a 
sparse  handful  of  corn  and  retreated  toward  the 
house. 

"  The's  jes'  three  things  I  c'n  do,"  she  reflected, 
as  she  swept  the  snow  from  her  front  steps,  ob- 
livious to  the  magical  splendor  of  the  budding 
maples  laden  with  pearl  and  ermine,  through 
which  the  sun  was  darting  jealous  arrows:  "I 
c'n  go  down  t'  th'  store  'n'  resk  havin'  Obed 
Salter  tell  me  he  won't  trust  me  no  more;  er  I 
c'n  go  t'  th'  pars'nage  'n'  ask  th'  minister  right 
out  f'r  the  money  on  Philura's  wrapper  .  .  . 
but  I  will  say  I'd  hate  t'  do  that.  Mebbe  he 
wouldn't  be  up  yit;  'n'  what  on  airth  would  he 
think  o'  me  traipsin'  t'  his  house  b'fore  breakfas' 
— with  Philura  in  bed  'n'  all.  I  s'pose  I  c'd  take 
that  there  robe  back  t'  Mis'  Hobbs.  It's  all  done 
s'  well  's  I  c'n  make  out  with  it.  'Twon't  fall  t' 
pieces  first  thing,  anyhow.  ...  I  s'pose  she'll 
find  out  who  I  be,  sooner  er  later.  'N'  other 


72  NEIGHBORS 

folks  will,  too;  but  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  let  Ma  starve, 
not  s'  long  's  I  c'n  hold  a  needle." 

She  was  on  the  point  of  retreating  indoors 
when  the  sight  of  a  slim  figure  speeding  along 
the  magical  vista  arrested  her  on  the  threshold. 

"  Bon  matin,  Mees  Malvina !  "  cried  a  fresh 
young  voice.  "  Wat  'appiness  to  see  all  zis 
beauty!  Eet  ees  mos'  spirituelle — like  what  you 
call  'eaven,  riest-ce  pas?" 

"  How's  your  pa  feelin'  this  mornin'  ?  "  in- 
quired Miss  Malvina.  "  I  thought  I'd  jes'  step 
in  t'  inquire  after  breakfas',  V  see  ef  the'  wa'n't 
somethin'  I  c'd  do." 

The  little  dressmaker  drew  the  black-and-white 
plaid  shawl  closer  under  her  chin,  and  stood 
smiling  down  at  the  girl.  She  could  see  her  very 
distinctly,  even  without  her  far-seeing  glasses,  in 
the  clear  white  light  of  the  morning,  and  she  was 
thinking  vaguely  that  the  vivid  face  upturned  to 
hers  was  like  no  other  face  she  had  ever  seen. 

"  Merci  one  sousand,  chere  Mees  Malvina, 
mon  papa  'e  ees  quite  recover  after  sleep.  I  'ave 
make  already  dejeuner.  Also,  I  find  ze  shop.  See, 
I  bring  compliments  of  my  papa  to  madame, 


votre  mere." 


"  We  don't  keep  a  horse,"  said  Miss  Malvina, 
shaking  her  head. 

The  girl  was  eagerly  extending  a  basket. 


NEIGHBORS  73 

"  Non?  I  not  un'erstan';  but  for  your  dejeuner 
—oui?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  don't  ketch  on  t'  your  kind  of 
talk.  You'd  ought  t'  learn  English.  .  .  .  You 
want  I  sh'd  take  this  'ere  basket?  " 

The  girl  smiled  and  nodded,  with  a  glint  of 
white  teeth  between  red  lips.  Then  she  consulted 
a  small  book  dangling  from  her  belt. 

"  See — all  times  I  study  V Anglais.  ...  I 
tell  you,  very  queek:  Compliments, — ze  same — 
of  mon  pere — my  fat'er — to  votre  mere — your 
mot'er.  Voila!  you  have  eet — n'est-ce  pas? 
Goo'-by;  you  come  again  queek!  " 

"  Fer  th'  Ian'  sake!  "  ejaculated  Miss  Malvina, 
as  she  investigated  the  contents  of  the  basket  in 
the  privacy  of  her  kitchen.  "  Them  folks  're 
a-goin'  t'  be  reel  good  neighbors;  I  c'n  see  that 
a'ready.  I  only  fetched  'em  over  two  eggs  las' 
night,  'n'  here's  six  an'  much  's  a  pound  o'  butter, 
'n'  goodness  knows  what-all  in  these  'ere  jars." 

Over  a  slim  bottle  of  suspicious  aspect  and 
many-worded  foreign  labels  Miss  Malvina  shook 
her  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  it's  some  sort  o'  intoxicatin' 
liquor,"  she  said,  sniffing  gingerly  at  the  seal. 
"  Mebbe  I'd  better  take  it  back  an'  tell  'em  first 
thing  'at  Ma  an'  me  b'longs  t'  the  W.  C.  T.  U." 

In  the  end  she  decided  to  stow  the  bottle  out 


74  NEIGHBORS 

of  sight  in  the  gloomy  recesses  of  the  upper 
pantry  shelf. 

"  'Twon't  do  no  harm  up  there,"  she  told  her- 
self strongly.  "  But  you  wouldn't  ketch  me  a-giv- 
in'  it  t'  Ma,  even  if  she  was  at  death's  door." 

Half  an  hour  later  Miss  Malvina,  her  best 
frizzed  front  (inherited  from  her  grandmother) 
pinned  firmly  over  her  white  curls  and  her  small 
figure  enveloped  in  a  stiffly  starched  gingham 
apron,  stood  knocking  at  Philura  Rice's  back 
door.  She  still  thought  of  the  erstwhile  vacant 
house  as  belonging  to  the  wife  of  the  minister,  as 
did  every  one.  Miss  Philura  Rice  had  married 
the  Reverend  Silas  Pettibone  three  years  before, 
to  the  amazement,  not  to  say  consternation  of  the 
village  of  Innisfield,  which  had  long  since  rele- 
gated the  modest  little  lady  to  the  limbo  of  pro- 
tracted maidenhood. 

"My!"  cogitated  Miss  Malvina  to  herself, 
"  how  many,  many  times  I've  run  in  here  t'  bor- 
row a  spoon  o'  bakin'-powder  er  like  that  off 
Philura;  an*  when  Genevieve  'n'  Greg'ry  lived 
here,  too.  But  th'  house  wa'n't  big  enough  f'r 
them  after  th'  twins  was  born.  An'  o'  course  Mis' 
Mort'mer  Van  Duser  wanted  'em  in  Boston, 
where  she  c'd  see  'em  ev'ry  day.  I  never  seen  a 
woman  meller  up  the  way  she  done  after  those 
babies " 


NEIGHBORS  75 

She  paused  to  once  more  apply  her  knuckles  in 
a  brisk  rat-tat  on  the  closed  door. 

"  Like  enough  they're  makin'  sech  a  racket 
movin'  furnitur'  they  can't  hear,"  she  told  herself. 
"  I  c'n  see  one  thing:  th'  ain't  b'en  a  rag  laid  t' 
them  winders,  'n'  it's  all  a  body  c'n  do  t'  see 
through  'em,  what  with  dust  'n'  cobwebs." 

Then  all  at  once  she  became  aware  of  the 
approach  of  slippered  feet  within.  The  door  was 
opened  on  a  cautious  crack  and  a  bearded  face 
looked  out.  It  was  the  man  she  had  seen  the  night 
before.  Miss  Malvina  blushed  like  a  girl  as  she 
recalled  the  touch  of  his  lips  on  her  rough  little 
fingers.  But  it  seemed  suddenly  impossible  to 
explain  her  presence  on  the  back  door-steps.  For 
an  instant  she  meditated  flight. 

"  Ah  1  Goo'-morning,"  said  the  man.  "  You 
wish — er — to — entaire?  " 

Miss  Bennett  brightened. 

"  I  jes'  run  over  t' — t'  help  'round  a  spell,"  she 
said  eagerly.  "  I  guess  you  was  mos'  too  sick  las' 
night  t'  take  notice  who  't  was  doin'  f'r  you. 
'Twas  reel  kind  t'  send  over  them  things  t'  Ma. 
She  et  a  reel  good  meal  o'  vittles  f'r  th'  firs'  time 
in  I  don'  know  when.  It  done  her  good — differ'nt 
things,  you  know,  'n'  like  that." 

The  man  opened  the  door  wide,  and  with  a 
courteous  gesture  bade  the  little  dressmaker  enter. 


76  NEIGHBORS 

He  was  smiling  and  his  eyes,  very  clear  and  dark, 
again  swept  the  small  figure. 

"  You  'ave  ze  wish  to  see  my  daughter,  n'est-ce- 
pas?  S'e  has  gone  out  in  search  of — an  ouvri- 
ere — for  the  moment  I  cannot  perceive  the  word; 
of  a  possibility  you  can  inform  me?  " 

"  You  c'n  search  me,"  said  Miss  Malvina. 
"  Why  under  th'  sun  didn't  she  wait  till  I  come 
over?  Mebbe  I  c'd  'a'  made  out  what  't  was  you 
wanted;  I've  lived  here  sence  I  was  knee  high  t' 
a  grasshopper." 

The  man  had  bent  his  head  with  grave  atten- 
tion. 

"  Your  language,"  he  said,  "  ees  mos'  engaging. 
Nevair  do  I  weary  of  its  study.  But  naturelle- 
ment  I  spik  more  readily  zan  I  comprehend.  You 
will  pardon  me,  I  'ave  ze  hope?" 

"  Sure  I  will,"  said  Miss  Malvina,  with  dig- 
nity. "  'Tain't  reelly  your  fault  you're  fur'n.  An' 
I  think  you  speak  quite  nice.  .  .  ;  I  see  your 
windows  ain't  b'en  cleaned;  s'pose  I  whirl  in  an' 
wash  'em  f'r  you?  I  fetched  some  cleanin'  cloths 
along;  's  I  says  t'  Ma,  they  won't  hev  none,  'tain't 
likely." 

"  Ah!  An  ouvriere?  But  surely  I  am  mistake. 
Do  you  not  live  in  the  adjoining  house?  " 

"  Cert'nly  I  do — me  an'  Ma  Bennett.  I'm  a 
dressmaker  b'  trade,  an'  gen'ally  I  don't  have 


NEIGHBORS  77 

time  t'  clean  my  own  windows;  but  this  spring 
I — I  ain't  s'  busy  's  usual  so  I  got  time  t'  burn." 

"Time— to— burn?" 

He  smilingly  shook  his  head. 

"  I  am  very  academic,  I  fear.  But  I  s'all  per- 
haps improve;  in  the  interval  you  will  obligingly 
excuse?  " 

u  Guess  I'll  hev  t',"  chirruped  Miss  Malvina. 
"  An'  I  won't  say  I  don't  find  it  kind  of  enjoyable 
— your  bein'  fur'n  an'  so  t'  say  differ'nt  from 
th'  folks  'round  here." 

Never  had  Miss  Malvina  felt  more  dignified 
and  at  ease.  The  man's  gentle  air  of  deference, 
his  grave  attention  to  everything  she  said  had 
somehow  soothed  her  wounded  pride.  Her  faded 
eyes  sparkled;  she  even  raised  a  careful  hand  to 
Grandmother  Bennett's  legacy.  It  was  composed 
of  tightly  frizzed  and  very  black  hair  mounted  on 
a  net  foundation,  and  it  concealed  very  completely 
the  feathery  snow-white  hair  beneath.  Miss  Mal- 
vina had  blanched  early,  but  with  the  aid  of  the 
artificial  front — designed  for  a  larger  head  than 
her  own — it  had  been  possible  to  keep  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  fact  from  the  general  public.  She 
was  glad  she  had  worn  it  this  morning,  instead 
of  her  every-day  one,  which  had  faded  with  the 
years  to  a  singular  greenish  tint. 

"  L'me  see,"  she  went  on,  "  I  hed  a  reg'lar 


78  NEIGHBORS 

interduction  t'  you  las'  night;  but  what  with  your 
bein'  s'  upset — if  not  reelly  d'lirious — an'  me 
a-flyin'  'round  like  a  hen  with  her  head  cut  off 
tryin'  t'  git  some  supper  so  's  you'd  eat  a  bite — I 
clean  fergot  what  't  was." 

Her  new  neighbor  shook  his  head  regretfully. 

"  Again  I  accomplis'  my  ignorance,"  he  said. 
"You  will  repeat  in  words  more  simple — is  it 
not?" 

"  I  f'rgot  your  name,"  said  Miss  Malvina, 
"  mine's  Miss  Malvina  Bennett." 

"Ah — Mees  Malvina  Bennett;  but  I  hastily 
make  my  introduction,  my  name  eet  ees  Desaye — 
Ettienne  Desaye — and  very  much  at  your  service, 
Mees  Malvina.  You  possess  ze  good  heart." 

"  My  land !  I  ain't  done  nothin'  t'  speak  of," 
protested  the  little  dressmaker.  "  Here  comes 
Mad'lane,  now.  I'll  bet  I  c'n  find  out  what 
she's  be'n  after  b'fore  you  c'n  spell  Jack 
Robinson."" 

Madeleine,  colorful  as  a  flower,  ran  up  to 
Miss  Malvina  with  a  little  cry  of  pleasure,  and 
stooping  her  slim  young  body,  touched  first  one 
faded  cheek  then  the  other  with  her  warm,  red 
lips. 

"  Gracious  me ! "  exclaimed  the  astonished 
recipient  of  these  favors.  "  I  don't  know  when 
anybody's  kissed  me  b'fore  sence  I  was  knee  high 


NEIGHBORS  79 

t'  a  grasshopper..  You  two  cert'nly  do  beat  the 
Dutch.  You  ain't  no  more  like  Innisfield  folks 
'an  th'  moon's  like  green  cheese.  .  .  .  Now, 
Mad'lane — I  hope  I  got  that  right — I  want  you 
should  tell  me  what  you  b'en  lookin'  fer,  then 
we'll  git  t'  work.  I  cert'nly  do  enjoy  gassin'  's 
well  's  the  next  one;  but  p'lite  conv'sation  don't 
saw  no  wood." 

The  process  by  which  Miss  Malvina  was  led  to 
understand  the  significance  of  the  word  ouvriere 
was  a  tortuous  one,  and  involved  the  use  of  the 
French  and  English  lexicons,  as  well  as  a  search 
through  the  popular  phrase-book  Madeleine  car- 
ried at  her  belt. 

"What  a  redic'lous  name  f'r  wash-woman!" 
she  exclaimed,  when  at  last  light  broke  upon  her 
bewildered  mind.  "  But  I  c'n  tell  you  they're 
scurcer  'n  hen's  teeth  this  spring.  L'me  see:  Mis' 
Wessells  is  t'  th'  pars'nage,  'n'  likely  '11  stay  there 
f'r  a  spell  on  'count  of  Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone's 
baby.  .  .  .  You'll  git  t'  know  her  reel  well,  once 
she  gits  'round  agin.  She  owns  this  'ere  house, 
an'  she's  th'  greatest  little  woman — she  c'n  tell 
you  all  about  how  t'  git  anythin'  you  want  out  th' 
surroundin'  atmosphere.  She  got  her  husban' 
that-a-way  'n'  all  her  best  clo'es.  But  I  don' 
know;  I  ain't  had  s'  much  luck,  myself.  .  .  . 
Now,  I  guess  we'll  tackle  this  'ere  kitchen,  first 


So  NEIGHBORS 

off,  'n'  ef  your  pa  c'n  make  out  t'  do  a  little  un- 
packin'  we'll  soon  hev  things  ship-shape.  'N'  even 
ef  I  can't  make  out  all  you  say,  actions  cert'nly  do 
speak  louder  'n'  words,  'n'  I  guess  you'll  find  I 
ain't  afraid  t'  whirl  in  'n'  work,  ef  I  ain't  a  reg'lar 
whachucallem,  goin'  out  b'  th'  day." 

By  noon  shining  windows,  clean  paint,  and  vig- 
orously scrubbed  floors  attested  the  genuineness 
of  Miss  Malvina's  professions,  while  the  new 
proprietors  of  Miss  Philura's  abandoned  dwelling 
showed  themselves  equally  expeditious  and  re- 
sourceful. Indeed,  Miss  Bennett,  in  one  of  her 
flying  trips  across  the  yard  in  quest  of  a  fresh 
supply  of  "  winder  rags  "  reported  to  Ma  prog- 
ress of  an  astonishing  character. 

"  They  ain't  got  sech  a-nawful  lot  o'  stuff,"  she 
said;  "but  I'll  bet  you'll  be  s'prised  t'  see  their 
parlor.  Don't  look  a  speck  like  any  other  room 
in  town;  first  thing  Mr.  Dassay  done  was  t'  fix  a 
lot  o'  books  on  shelves,  'n'  she  whips  up  some 
han'some  lace  curtains  t'  th'  winders  b'fore  I  c'd 
git  'em  good  'n'  polished.  They  got  pictur's,  too, 
'n'  queer  kinds  o'  vases  'n'  like  that,  'n'  rugs. 
You'd  ought  t'  see  them  rugs — thick  's  a  board 
'n'  all  colors — kind  o'  mixy,  I  thought.  I'd  ruther 
lay  down  a  good  red  'n'  black  ingrain,  m'self,  with 
a  layer  o'  straw  in  under  it  t'  keep  the  wind  offen 
y'r  feet;  but  bein'  fur'n  I  s'pose  they  don't  know 


NEIGHBORS  81 

no  better.  They  even  hung  up  some  of  them  rugs 
on  th'  walls.  I  had  t'  laugh!  " 

Late  that  afternoon  the  little  dressmaker  stood 
looking  about  her  at  the  rooms  so  swiftly  trans- 
formed from  dreary  emptiness  to  snug  comfort, 
albeit  of  a  singular  and  foreign  sort  hitherto 
unknown  in  Innisfield. 

"  Well,  'twas  lucky  f  r  you  folks  I  waVt  so 
drove  in  m'  shop  es  usual,"  she  said  complacently. 
"  'N'  I  will  say  it  looks  reel  nice,  upstairs  'n' 
down,  not  'at  I  ever  heerd  o'  sech  a  thing  es 
hangin'  up  goods  b'  th'  yard  on  th'  walls  with 
brass-headed  tacks.  But  this  'ere  blue  'n'  white 
stripe  cert'nly  does  look  pretty  with  Mad'lane's 
white  furnitur'.  'N'  th'  red  's  reel  cheerful 
in  your  Pa's  room.  .  .  .  But  I  got  t'  go 
now  'n'  git  Ma  Bennett's  supper  b'fore  she  gits 
fractious." 

"  Chere  Mees  Malvina,"  said  the  girl,  "  one 
sousand  time  we  are  oblige;  but  you  will  permit 
• — you  will  not  be  offend " 

She  glanced  appealingly  at  her  father. 

"  We  wish — wiz  our  t'anks — to  also  make  ze 
reward  suitable,"  said  M.  Desaye,  with  a  propi- 
tiatory smile,  "you  will  permit — is  it  not?" 

He  produced  from  his  waistcoat  pocket  a  small 
white  envelope  which  he  handed  to  Miss  Mal- 
vina, with  a  courteous  bow.  She  opened  it  to 


82  NEIGHBORS 

find  within  a  neatly  folded  bank-note.  Just  why 
Miss  Malvina  should  have  experienced  a  shock 
of  bitter  resentment  at  sight  of  money  so  hardly 
earned  and  so  sorely  needed  furnishes  a  psycho- 
logical problem  of  considerable  interest.  She  was 
in  the  habit  of  earning  money  by  the  labor  of  her 
hands;  then  why  not  this  money?  Was  there,  one 
might  inquire,  any  real  difference  between  plying 
the  needle  and  the  scrubbing-brush?  That  there 
was  a  difference,  wide  and  deep,  was  evidenced  by 
Miss  Malvina's  unpremeditated  behavior  on  this 
occasion. 

"  Sakes  alive !  "  she  cried,  her  small  figure  quite 
rigid  with  indignation.  "  Th'  simple  idee  o'  tryin' 
t'  pay  me  f'r  what  I  done,  like  I  was  Louisa 
Wessells  er  Mis'  Jabez  Trimble !  I  come  over 
t'  do  f'r  you  folks  friendly,  b'cause  you  was  neigh- 
bors 'n'  b'cause " 

Something  very  like  a  sob  choked  further  utter- 
ance; but  Miss  Malvina  managed  clearly  to  con- 
vey her  utter  repudiation  of  the  idea  of  recom- 
pense by  casting  the  envelope  and  its  contents  at 
the  feet  of  the  man  who  had  offered  it. 

"  I'd  hev  you  t'  understan'  I  don't  go  out  b'  th' 
day  except  t'  sew — an'  only  then  t'  'commodate  m' 
reg'lar  cust'mers,"  she  went  on,  a  bright  color 
staining  her  faded  cheeks.  "  Ef  I  want  t'  do  a 
kindness  f'r  folks  I  guess  I  kin  do  it,  without  bein' 


NEIGHBORS  83 

slapped  in  th'  face — an'  me  a  member  in  good 
V  reg'lar  standin' !  " 

The  innocent  offenders  stood  stupefied,  aghast. 
The  girl  began  a  hurried  search  through  her 
phrase-book,  while  the  man  rumpled  his  hair — 
which  was  somewhat  long  and  curling  and  frosted 
lightly  with  silver — with  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"  Helas!  "  he  murmured.  "  I  am  inconsolable! 
Too  leetle?  Too  much?  or  not  at  all — I  ask  you? 
But  w'y?  .  .  .  W'y  s'ould  you  derange  yourself 
for  us — not  of  your  country?" 

Miss  Malvina's  wrath  suddenly  vanished  into 
thin  air. 

"That's  so!  "  she  chuckled.  "A  body'd  ought 
t'  keep  in  mind  constant  that  you  can't  help  bein' 
fur'n.  As  f'r  bein'  d'ranged,  insanity  don't  run 
in  our  fambly,  so  you  needn't  be  skeered;  I  git 
mad  quick,  but  it  don't  last  no  time.  ...  I  see 
you  didn't  know  no  better;  so  we'll  call  it  square." 

;'  We  call  eet  sq-ware — but  what  ees  sq-ware, 
dear  Mees  Malvina?"  entreated  Madeleine. 
"Eet  ees  of  a  frien'ly — n'est-ce  pas?" 

"  Good  land,  yes !  "  laughed  the  little  dress- 
maker, her  dignified  complacency  quite  restored. 
'  You're  'nough  t'  kill  corn — th'  two  of  you ;  but, 
I  guess  you  mean  all  right." 

In  the  chill  dusk  of  the  April  evening,  while 
ashes  of  violet  and  rose  still  mingled  in  the  west, 


84  NEIGHBORS 

Miss  Malvina  sped  like  a  shadow  under  the 
budding  elms.  In  a  flat  parcel  under  her  arm 
was  the  brown-and-purple  "  robe,"  substantially 
stitched  and  conscientiously  finished. 

Mrs.  Hobbs,  still  environed  with  the  as  yet 
inchoate  creations  of  her  genius,  welcomed  her 
with  unaffected  emotion. 

"  I've  put  in  a  terrible  day,"  she  confessed. 
"  What  with  ladies  telephoning,  and  coming  in 
droves  to  talk  over  styles.  .  .  .  You  say  this  is 
all  finished?  Well,  I'll  look  it  over  as  soon  's  I 
get  a  chance,  an'  let  your  friend  know  if  she's  to 
send  for  more." 

But  Miss  Malvina  stiffened  her  spine,  in  a 
valiant  effort  not  to  notice  the  heaps  of  silk  and 
lengths  of  trimming  which  littered  the  chairs  and 
tables. 

"  You'll  look  it  over  an'  pay  fer  it  now,  right 
down  in  my  hand,  same's  you  promised,"  she  said 
firmly.  "  I  don'  know  es  anybody  c'd  say  much 
fer  th'  looks  o'  that  there  robe  of  Mis'  Deaconess 
Buckthorn's;  but  't  won't  fall  t'  pieces  first  time 
she  puts  it  on;  'n'  th'  plackets  won't  bust  out, 
neither,  'n'  it's  be'n  evened  up  'round  th'  bottom. 
Why,  sakes  alive,  Miss  Hobbs,  that  hem  was 
three  inches  wide  in  the  front  o'  th'  skirt  an'  two 
'n'  a  quarter  in  th'  back;  'n'  th'  hooks  'n'  eyes  on 
th'  waist  didn't  no  more  gibe  'n'  anythin'.  I  c'd  V 


NEIGHBORS  85 

done  better  V  that  at  dressmakin'  when  I  was  ten 
years  old." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  chafed  her  reddened  nose  with  a 
breadth  of  cambric.  "  I  hope  you  haven't  spoiled 
the  hang  of  the  skirt,"  she  said  fretfully. 

"  Spoiled?— me — spoiled?  "  echoed  Miss  Mal- 
vina  indignantly.  Then  she  took  refuge  in  a  fit 
of  coughing. 

"  Of  course  I  know  who  you  are,"  pursued 
Mrs.  Hobbs;  "I  asked  Mrs.  Salter  to-day,  an' 
she  told  me." 

"  I  ain't  ashamed  t'  be  knowed,"  stated  Miss 
Malvina.  "  I  came  up  here  in  th'  first  place,  like 
th'  children  of  Israel  went  in  the  Promised  Land, 
t'  see  what  sort  of  a  shop  you  kep',  an'  whether 
you  was  goin'  t'  freeze  me  out  permanent.  .  .  . 
The  minute  I  laid  my  eyes  on  this  'ere  robe  I  quit 
worryin'." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  Mrs.  Hobbs 
feebly. 

"  Jest  what  I  say.  I  ain't  worried  a  mite. 
'Twon't  be  no  time  b'fore  they'll  all  be  back  a-pes- 
terin'  me  f'r  some  reel  sewin'.  These  'ere  throwed 
t'gether  robes  ain't  a-goin'  t'  take  in  this  'ere 
town,  I  know;  I've  sewed  f'r  'em,  off  'n'  on,  f'r 
thirty  years." 

"  I  wonder  you  dare  talk  to  me  like  that," 
almost  whimpered  Mrs.  Hobbs,  with  a  vain 


86  NEIGHBORS 

effort  after  dignity.  "  All  my  clientele  admire 
my  superior  taste." 

Miss  Bennett  gazed  at  her  rival  pityingly. 

"  I'm  reel  sorry  f'r  you,"  she  said.  "  Honest, 
I  be." 

"  Sorry — for  me?  Why,  my  good  woman, 
j " 

"  Uh-huh !  'n'  I'll  tell  you  why.  You  can't  hold 
this  'ere  trade  with  th'  kind  o'  work  you're  doin'. 
It'll  peter  out  on  you  in  no  time." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  fingered  her  frizzes  with  an  as- 
sumption of  ease  she  was  far  from  feeling. 

"  I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing  as  a  person  like 
you,"  she  stammered.  "  It — it's  the  most  extraor- 
dinary idea " 

"  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  Mis'  Hobbs,  I  got  kind  of 
des'prit,  what  with  losin'  all  my  cust'mers,  'n'  th' 
rent  'n'  groc'ries  runnin'  b'hind.  I  got  Ma  Ben- 
nett t'  do  for;  Ma's  goin'  on  seventy-nine.  She 
come  t'  live  with  me  last  winter  after  m'  brother 
died.  She  ain't  got  nobody  but  me,  now.  An' 
thinks  s'  I,  I  got  t'  do  somethin'  right  off.  .  .  . 
You'd  laff  if  I  was  t'  tell  you  how  skeered  I  was 
t'  come  up  them  stairs  th'  first  time.  Ef  you'd 
a'  b'en  a  roarin'  rhinoc'rus  I  couldn't  'a'  felt  more 
shrinkin'." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  moved  restlessly  in  her  chair. 

*'  You  c'n  go  right  on  sewin';  don't  mind  me," 


NEIGHBORS  87 

said  Miss  Bennett  kindly.  "  I'd  reelly  like  t'  see 
how  your  s'perior  taste  '11  work  out  on  that  there 
green  costume — the  one  on  the  figur'.  .  .  .  But, 
es  I  was  sayin',  I  jes'  took  th'  bit  in  m'  teeth  an' 
tromped  on  all  my  mos'  sacred  feelin's.  Now  I 
see  you  ain't  no  better  off  'n'  I  be,  fer  all  y'r  gilt 
sign  'n'  y'r  Madame  'n'  y'r  heaps  o'  work.  I  ain't 
got  'nough  work,  'n'  you  got  too  much.  Ef  I 
whirl  in  'n'  help  you  out — same's  we  talked  las' 
night — me  a-doin'  reel  honest  sewin'  like  folks 
'round  here  're  used  to,  you  may  last  out  quite  a 
spell.  Ef  you  won't,  why " 

Miss  Bennett's  eloquent  hands  disclaimed  all 
further  responsibility  for  Mrs.  Hobbs'  career. 

"  You  cert'nly  have  got  nerve"  murmured  the 
new  dressmaker;  but  she  said  it  almost  admir- 
ingly. 

"  So  've  you,"  returned  Miss  Bennett  promptly, 
"  er  you  wouldn't  be  here." 

The  two  women  stared  at  each  other  fixedly  for 
an  instant:  then  Mrs.  Hobbs'  watery  gaze  fell. 

'You  want  I  should  pay  you  for  this?"  she 
inquired  uncertainly. 

11  Uh-huh,  an'  give  me  some  more  work;  I  got 
t'  live  whilst  I'm  waitinY' 

This  ominous  reference  to  the  future  appeared 
to  galvanize  Madame  Louise  into  action.  She 
arose  and  fetched  a  plethoric  purse. 


88  NEIGHBORS 

"How — much  do  I  owe  you?"  she  hesitated. 
"  I  mean  how  long — we  agreed  by  the  day,  didn't 
we?" 

"  I  put  in  five  hours,  stiddy,"  stated  Miss  Mal- 
vina.  "  So  it  comes  t'  a  dollar  V  a  half,  even 
money.  That  robe  's  all  ready  t'  send  home — 's 
much  's  it  ever  will  be  this  side  o'  Jordan.  .  .  . 
It'll  be  reel  enjoyable  t'  see  Mis'  Buckthorn  come 
sailin'  down  th'  center  aisle  with  it  on.  ..." 

The  clash  of  the  three  silver  half  dollars  was 
music  in  Miss  Malvina's  ears,  as  she  sped  home- 
ward clasping  a  great  parcel  of  work  in  her  thin 
little  arms. 

"  Ain't  I  glad  I  stepped  on  m'  pride  an'  roused 
m'  grit  'n'  gumption?"  she  said  to  herself. 
"  'Twon't  be  no  time  b'fore  I  c'n  hold  up  m' 
head  with  th'  best  of  'em — all  m'  bills  paid  'n' 
money  laid  by.  'N'  ef  that  ain't  a  lot  better  'n' 
settin'  'round  cryin'  over  spilt  milk  my  name  ain't 
Malvina  Bennett  I  " 


VIII 

YOUNG  Harry  Schwartz  whistled  pleasantly 
to  himself  as  he  applied  a  liquid  polish 
to  the  body  of  his  automobile,  which 
under  the  further  urge  of  his  muscular  arms  as- 
sumed a  specious  semblance  of  newness.  It  was 
a  second-hand  car  of  humble  origin,  and  the  young 
man,  contrary  to  the  advice  of  his  prudent  par- 
ents, had  just  taken  one  hundred  and  twenty-five 
dollars  from  his  modest  savings  to  pay  for  it. 

"  Harry,"  said  a  voice  from  an  open  window 
close  at  hand,  "  is  that  my  new  dust-cloth  you're 
using?  I've  been  looking  for  it  everywhere." 

The  young  man  grinned. 

"  Shouldn't  wonder,  ma,"  he  confessed.  "  Is 
this  it — with  du-daddles  in  pink  worked  round  the 
edge?  Crabbed  it  from  a  bag  behind  the  door. 
Just  the  thing  for  polishing.  Say,  ma,  come  on 
out  and  view  the  flivver !  She  sure  is  some  car." 

Mrs.  Schwartz  presently  emerged  from  the 
back  door,  an  apron  over  her  head.  She  was  a 
pretty,  fair-haired  little  woman,  and  her  big  son 
gazed  down  at  her  with  an  amused  smile. 

"  What  you  going  to  do  with  me,  mamma — 
89 


9o  NEIGHBORS 

spat  my  hands?"  he  inquired  good-humoredly. 
"  I  had  a  sneaking  notion  I  was  appropriating 
something  valuable;  but  I  was  in  a  hurry.  .  .  . 
Got  the  knock  out  the  engine;  she  runs  like  a 
breeze  now.  Want  a  ride?  " 

"  Oh,  Harry,  just  look  at  the  grease  spots  on 
your  new  clothes,"  wailed  his  mother.  "  Why 
didn't  you  put  on  your  overalls?  " 

The  young  man  surveyed  his  stalwart  person 
with  smiling  unconcern. 

"  That's  nothing,"  he  said  rather  grandly. 
"  Gas'll  take  it  out.  Run  in  and  get  your  coat  and 
we'll  take  a  spin.  I  want  you  to  hear  her  purr." 

But  Mrs.  Schwartz  shook  her  head.  She  had  a 
cake  in  the  oven,  she  said.  Besides,  there  was  the 
week's  mending  to  attend  to.  She  stood  for  a 
minute  gazing  about  her,  a  proud  light  of  happi- 
ness in  her  eyes;  in  the  rear  was  the  garden, 
already  plowed  in  anticipation  of  fresh  vegetables 
and  a  harvest  of  gay  annuals;  then  there  was  the 
house,  its  upper  story  covered  with  weathered 
shingles,  its  clapboards  below  freshly  painted  a 
light  brown,  trimmed  with  white.  Everything 
she  looked  upon  was  spotlessly  neat  and  all  their 
own.  Even  the  window-panes  glittered  in  the 
bleak  sunshine — she  had  just  washed  them — and 
the  shades  were  pulled  to  the  precise  middle  of 
the  sash;  beneath  them  one  caught  glimpses  of 


NEIGHBORS  91 

fresh  muslin  curtains.  There  was  a  bay-window  at 
the  side,  with  a  yellow  canary,  singing  shrilly,  and 
a  flourishing  rubber  plant  which  had  been  treated 
to  its  weekly  bath  of  milk  and  water.  A  narrow 
concrete  walk  led  around  the  house  to  the  front, 
where  it  joined  a  wide  expanse  of  the  same  useful 
substance  which  conducted  one  neatly  to  the  street. 
The  Schwartz  house  was  almost  exactly  like  four 
other  houses  in  the  immediate  neighborhood;  on 
other  streets  not  far  distant  were  similar  struc- 
tures— all  with  shingled  second  stories,  narrow 
front  porches,  and  jutting  bay-windows.  And  such 
is  the  solidarity  of  human  nature,  this  very  simi- 
larity added  a  fine  savor  of  complacency  to  Mrs. 
Schwartz's  reflections.  Any  one  could  see  theirs 
was  a  new  house  by  merely  looking  at  it,  and  there 
were  so  many  old  houses  in  Innisfield.  Indeed,  it 
was  only  lately  that  the  young  Boston  architect, 
with  plans  which  seemed  so  nearly  to  fit  the  aver- 
age income,  had  come  to  Innisfield.  There  was 
also  the  Building  and  Loan  Association,  a  con- 
venient bridge  between  inchoate  ambition  and  its 
fulfillment.  Harry  worked  for  the  Building  and 
Loan,  hence  the  savings  and  the  second-hand  car. 
After  all,  nothing  of  what  she  saw  would  have 
mattered  much  if  it  were  not  for  Harry.  Her 
fond  maternal  gaze  rested  upon  her  one  surviving 
child  as  he  bent  to  his  task.  He  was  a  handsome 


92  NEIGHBORS 

lad — other  people  besides  his  mother  said  so — 
and  she  was  never  tired  of  contemplating  his 
ruddy  complexion,  his  light  curling  hair,  his  frank 
blue  eyes,  all  of  which  fittingly  crowned  a  good 
six  feet  of  muscular,  well-developed  body.  As 
she  closed  the  door  of  her  kitchen  upon  the  pleas- 
ant picture  of  her  boy  trundling  slowly  out  to  the 
street,  his  face  as  shining  as  the  newly  polished 
car,  she  fondly  reviewed  her  ambitions  for 
Harry's  future.  He  was  to  go  on  working — and 
laying  up  money — till  he  had  enough  to  buy  a 
building  lot.  She  had  her  eye  on  one,  already,  not 
a  stone's  throw  from  the  family  dwelling.  On 
this  lot  Harry  would — with  the  aid  of  the  Build- 
ing and  Loan  Association — build  a  house,  with 
a  shingled  top  story,  a  bay-window,  a  front  porch, 
and  cement  walks. 

Inside  there  would  be,  of  course,  a  reception 
hall,  a  parlor,  with  a  dining-room  just  back  of  it, 
both  rooms  closely  associated  with  the  kitchen  by 
a  "  butler's  pantry."  She  believed  Harry  should 
have  hot-water  heat,  instead  of  steam.  It  sounded 
more  elegant  and  expensive,  somehow;  but  for 
the  rest  his  house  should  be  precisely  like  all  the 
other  half-shingled  houses,  a  few  of  which  were 
distinguished  by  red  or  green  roofs.  It  cost  more 
to  have  a  colored  roof,  and  the  brilliant  tints  of 
the  freshly  stained  shingles  had  a  provoking  tend- 


NEIGHBORS  93 

ency  to  fade  to  the  same  dull  hue  of  untreated 
roofs.  But  if  Harry  wanted  a  red  or  green  roof 
he  should  have  one. 

Mrs.  Schwartz  took  her  cake  from  the  oven 
—it  was  in  three  layers,  and  baked  to  a  delicate 
brown.  By  the  time  she  had  built  her  three  layers 
into  a  perfect  structure  with  chocolate  frosting 
(which  Harry  liked)  she  had  come  to  the  difficult 
matter  of  choosing  Harry's  wife.  The  little 
woman  wrinkled  her  forehead  and  pursed  up  her 
lips,  as  she  passed  the  girls  of  Harry's  age  in 
critical  review.  Not  one  of  them  seemed  to  en- 
tirely fill  the  requirements.  It  was  natural  for 
Harry  to  want  to  marry  a  pretty  girl;  but  having 
conceded  this  much  to  the  unthinking  masculine 
nature,  Mrs.  Schwartz  could  not  help  reflecting 
on  the  well-known  fact  that  pretty  girls,  as  a  rule, 
are  far  less  fitted  to  the  domestic  treadmill  than 
their  plainer  sisters.  They  were  more  apt  to  be 
idle,  vain,  and  fond  of  a  good  time.  It  was  im- 
possible to  think  of  her  son's  new  house  presided 
over  by  a  woman  of  that  sort. 

"  Harry's  always  been  used  to  having  things 
just  so,"  mused  Mrs.  Schwartz,  as  she  set  her 
cake  to  cool  in  close  proximity  to  a  lemon  pie 
topped  by  a  fabulous  meringue.  "  And  he  never 
could  stand  it  any  other  way." 

As   she   washed   her   hands   at   the    sink   she 


94  NEIGHBORS 

resolved  to  guard  Harry  against  the  machinations 
of  certain  young  ladies  whom  she  forebore  to 
name  to  herself;  but  who  none  the  less  appeared 
to  threaten  peaceful  possession  of  her  idol. 

"  Harry's  a  good  boy,"  she  told  herself 
proudly,  "  he'll  never  go  against  his  mother,  when 
it  comes  to  getting  married.  And  anyway,  there 
isn't  any  hurry." 

Then  she  took  her  basket  of  mending  and  sat 
down  in  the  bay-window  to  darn  stockings,  com- 
placently aware  of  the  hard-won  order  and 
immaculate  Saturday  cleanliness  of  her  small 
domain  and  of  the  two  dollars  and  thirty-nine 
cents  she  had  contrived  to  save  from  her  house- 
keeping allowance  that  week.  Unconsciously  her 
small,  blond  face  took  on  the  look  of  a  flower 
tightly  closed  against  the  sun  after  its  one  day 
of  blossoming,  no  more  the  rendezvous  of  wan- 
dering bee  or  vagrant  butterfly,  but  secretly  and 
exclusively  occupied  with  its  own  concerns. 

In  the  meantime,  young  Harry  Schwartz  had 
driven  his  car  straight  down  the  main  street  of 
Innisfield  with  a  fine,  expansive  joy  welling  up 
within  him  and  overflowing  in  smiles  on  his 
handsome  ruddy  face.  With  his  cap  pushed  well 
back  on  his  crisp  hair  he  grasped  the  steering- 
wheel  with  both  hands,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  road 
which  appeared  to  leap  forward  to  meet  him. 


NEIGHBORS  95 

That  several  of  his  acquaintances  stopped  to 
stare  after  him  he  guessed  rather  than  saw.  He 
had  never  driven  a  car  before,  and  it  was  neces- 
sary to  give  his  entire  attention  to  the  matter. 
After  a  while,  he  had  been  told,  it  would  become 
as  easy  as  riding  a  bicycle — easier,  indeed. 

He  was  wondering  if  he  could  turn  the  thing 
around,  as  the  houses  slipped  away  from  him  on 
either  side.  In  a  very  few  minutes  he  was  clear 
of  the  village  on  the  narrow  country  road,  which 
led  between  farm  lands  substantially  fenced  to  a 
cross-roads,  dividing  the  valley  in  half.  He  re- 
flected that  he  could  easily  turn  his  machine 
around  at  the  intersection  of  the  two  roads.  It 
was  then  that  he  saw  a  woman's  figure  walking 
slowly  toward  the  sunset.  She  would,  of  course, 
get  out  of  his  way  when  she  heard  the  car  ap- 
proaching. To  his  surprise  she  did  nothing  of 
the  sort.  He  reached  for  his  horn,  which  gave 
forth  a  feeble  honk;  then  trod  savagely  on  every- 
thing in  sight. 

Things  happened  swiftly  and  consecutively 
after  that:  the  car  essayed  nimbly  to  leap  the  stone 
wall;  failing  in  this  it  turned  squarely  around 
and  toppled  over  on  its  side,  where  it  gasped  and 
rattled  convulsively.  Its  owner,  rather  white  and 
shaken,  climbed  out  over  the  uppermost  wheel. 
He  wasn't  even  scratched,  for  which  miracle  he 


96  NEIGHBORS 

should  have  been  devoutly  grateful.  Instead,  he 
was  conscious  only  of  an  immense  and  growing 
indignation  with  the  cause  of  the  disaster.  He 
finally  succeeded  in  quieting  the  sputtering  engine, 
after  which  he  turned  upon  the  girl,  who  stood 
quite  still,  her  hands  clasped,  her  eyes  wide  with 
terror  and  dismay. 

"  Well !  "  said  the  young  man.  "  What  in  the 
dickens!  Why  didn't  you  get  out  of  the  way?  " 

He  must  have  loomed  very  tall  and  threatening 
and,  for  all  his  youthful  good  looks,  a  terrifying 
sort  of  a  figure,  for  the  girl  slowly  backed  away 
from  him  without  attempting  a  reply. 

"  You  must  be  deaf  and  dumb!  "  he  went  on, 
still  hotly.  "  Didn't  you  hear  me  blow  my 
horn?" 

The  girl  essayed  to  speak,  failed;  then  without 
a  further  glance  at  him  turned  and  walked  swiftly 
away. 

Harry  Schwartz  stared  after  her  open- 
mouthed.  He  was  beginning  to  realize  dazedly 
two  things  he  had  at  first  been  too  shaken  and 
angry  to  notice :  the  first  was  that  she  was  extraor- 
dinarily and  vividly  pretty — for  all  her  pallor; 
second,  that  he  had  never  seen  her  before. 

>l  Whew !  but  she's  some  sprinter !  "  he  mut- 
tered. And  forthwith  broke  into  a  long  stride 
which  brought  him  abreast  of  the  culprit. 


NEIGHBORS  97 

"  What's  the  idea  in  running  away  so  fast,  Miss 
— er — eh?"  he  propounded.  Mendaciously  he 
added:  "  I  may  need  your  help,  you  know." 

The  girl  flashed  him  a  dark  glance. 

"  You  aire  one  rude  person,"  she  said  calmly. 
"You  un'erstan'  me — eh?  Sans  raison — bete!" 

"  What's  that?  "  cried  the  young  man.  "  Say! 
I  like  that!" 

"You  like  eet — eh?  Eh  bien — I  not  like  eet, 
absolument!  " 

"  But  you  should  have  gotten  out  of  the  road. 
I  honked  all  right.  I  might  have  been  killed,  you 
know." 

The  girl  made  no  reply.  And  after  a  perplexed 
silence  he  went  on.  "  Maybe  you  didn't  know  any 
better.  I  guess  you're  a  stranger — some  sort  of 
foreigner — eh?  " 

She  surveyed  him  haughtily  from  under  her 
lashes. 

"  I  promenade  myself,  pour  des  ceufs  frals — 
w'at  you  call  aigs.  Me — I  t'ank  you  for  not 
sm-ash." 

Harry  Schwartz  stared.  Then  he  threw  back 
his  head  and  laughed  whole-heartedly. 

"  By  George !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  must  go 
back  and  see  what  I  have  to  thank  you  for.  But 
it's  strictly  up  to  you  to  help  me  set  the  flivver  on 
her  feet,  don't  you  know.'* 


98  NEIGHBORS 

The  girl  listened  attentively  to  this  speech,  a 
little  puzzled  frown  puckering  her  white  fore- 
head. 

"  Stric'ly-up-t'-you,"  she  repeated;  "me — I  not 
know." 

The  color  had  come  back  to  lips  and  cheeks. 
She  smiled,  revealing  adorable  dimples  in  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth. 

He  gazed  down  at  her  with  a  growing  sense  of 
wonder. 

"Say,  where  did  you  come  from?"  he  asked. 
"  I  never  saw  you  before.  .  .  .  You  sure  are 
one  beaut,"  he  added,  confident  of  not  being  un- 
derstood. 

She  glanced  back  at  the  prostrate  automobile; 
then  at  its  owner,  a  tardy  sense  of  compunction 
dawning  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  aid  you?  "  she  propounded  sweetly. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,"  he  said,  feeling  suddenly 
ashamed  of  himself.  "  The  fact  is,  I'm  a  green- 
horn at  driving.  I  should  have  stopped  until,  you 
got  past  the  cross-roads.  I  meant  to  have  turned 
around  there." 

'  You  feex;  moi  aussi,"  she  offered  confidently. 
"Ow'f" 

She  had  turned  squarely  about  and  was  hurry- 
ing back  toward  the  scene  of  the  disaster. 

Young  Harry  Schwartz  followed. 


NEIGHBORS  99 

"  I  suppose  she's  teetotally  on  the  bum,"  he 
murmured  disconsolately.  "  First  time  I  had  her 
out,  too." 

The  girl  bestowed  her  precious  basket  under  a 
bush. 

"  Vo'ila!    We  make  eet,"  she  said  eagerly. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  doubted; 
"  I  don't  want  to  muss  her  up  any  more  than  I 
can  help." 

He  gazed  ruefully  at  his  treasure;  then  he  saw 
that  she  was  valiantly  dragging  a  rail  from  the 
fence. 

"Oh,  I  say!  that's  too  much  for  you.  .  .  . 
But  I  get  you.  Put  a  lever  under  her — eh?  Guess 
you're  right." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  little  car  stood  squarely 
on  its  four  wheels  once  more,  a  trifle  scratched, 
to  be  sure,  its  mud-guard  bent;  but,  on  the  whole, 
vindicating  the  modest  claims  of  its  maker. 

Then  Harry  Schwartz  quite  forgot  the  girl  in 
the  all-engrossing  business  of  examining  the  mech- 
anism under  the  hood  of  his  machine.  When  he 
finally  glanced  up  she  had  disappeared,  and 
neither  vista  of  the  country  road  afforded  so 
much  as  a  flutter  of  her  blue  skirts. 

"  Well,  I  like  that !  "  he  exclaimed  disgustedly. 
"  And  I  didn't  even  find  out  her  name." 


IX 

THE  Reverend  Silas  Pettibone,  attired  in  his 
second-best  preaching  clothes — dedicated 
to  parish  visiting  and  rainy-day  funerals- 
bent  to  kiss  his  wife  good-by.  He  was  not  a  de- 
monstrative man,  and  heretofore  his  caresses  had 
been  of  a  sparse  and  meager  nature,  commen- 
surate with  the  dignified  reserve  of  his  character. 
But  there  was  something  about  the  glorified  face 
of  his  wife  in  these  early  days  of  her  motherhood 
which  seemed  to  draw  kisses  as  the  sun  is  said  to 
draw  water,  when  it  sends  earthward  long,  lumi- 
nous rays  from  behind  an  effulgent  cloud  curtain. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  wearing  the  blue  negligee 
adorned  with  cascades  of  white  lace,  upon  which 
Malvina  Bennett  had  lavished  the  pent-up  poetry 
of  her  lone  maidenhood.  She  looked  very  small 
and  delicate  in  the  shabby  old  rocking-chair;  and 
no  one  but  the  most  discerning  would  have  identi- 
fied the  inert  flannel  bundle  in  her  arms  as  a  real 
live  baby. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  put  him  down  the  minute 
he  goes  to  sleep,"  she  apologized — having  ac- 
cepted his  kiss  with  the  slight  tinge  of  maidenly 
embarrassment  she  had  never  quite  lost. 

IOO 


NEIGHBORS  101 

"According  to  book,  my  dear,  you  should  put 
him  down  before  he  goes  to  sleep,"  offered  Mr. 
Pettibone,  drawing  on  his  gloves.  ..."  You're 
looking  remarkably  sweet  today,  Miss  Philura," 
he  added,  with  the  total  irrelevance  she  had 
noticed  in  him  of  late. 

She  blushed  becomingly. 

"  But  if  he  should  cry "  she  temporized. 

"  Haven't  you  learned  by  this  time  that  it  is 
the  inalienable  right  of  the  infant  to  cry?"  he 
asked.  "  How  else  shall  he  strengthen  his  lungs, 
expand  his — er — diaphragm  and ' 

"  Kittens  don't  cry,"  she  said  stoutly,  "  nor  nice 
little  roly-poly  puppies,  nor  little  birds;  their 
mothers  cuddle  them  all  the  while  and  feed  them 
whenever  they  like." 

"  A  cat,  a  dog,  or  a  fowl  of  the  air,  in  any  stage 
of  its  existence,"  he  reminded  her  gravely,  "  could 
hardly  be  compared  with  a  human  being." 

But  she  merely  cuddled  the  flannel  bundle 
closer  and  murmured  something  in  which  he 
caught  the  words  "  p'ecious  lamb." 

"  As  for  sheep  and  their  offspring,"  he  went  on, 
still  argumentatively,  "  one  should  really " 

"  Silas,"  she  interrupted  him,  "  did  you  pay 
Miss  Malvina  for  making  this  wrapper?  " 

"  Did  I — pay  Miss  Malvina?  " 

He  rumpled  his  hair. 


102  NEIGHBORS 

"I  have  no  remembrance — er — let  me  recall: 
Miss  Bennett  brought  that — er — very  becoming 
garment  to  the  parsonage  the  day  of  the  advent, 
when  such  trifles  as  clothes  and  money  were  far 
from  my  thoughts.  As  far — I  venture  to  say — 
as  from  Jacob,  the  morning  after  he  had  wrestled 
with  the  angel  and  received  his  new  name.  .  .  . 
No,  my  dear,  I  did  not  pay  Miss  Malvina." 

"Then  won't  you  go  there  today,  Silas?  Do 
you  know  I'm  afraid  poor  dear  Malvina  is  being 
quite  cut  out  by  the  new  dressmaker." 

"The     new     dressmaker — ah?      I     was     not 


aware- 


"  Over  Trimmer's  store;  don't  you  remember? 
We  were  going  to  call;  only  I " 

"  Ah,  yes !  I  fear  I  have  laid  myself  open  to 
a  charge  of  neglect  of  parochial  duties  during 
these  last  weeks;  but  now  that  you  are — now  that 
I  have  you  safe " 

11  And  the  baby,"  she  put  in,  touching  her  lips 
to  the  fraction  of  a  downy  head  which  peeped  out 
from  the  blankets. 

"  Oh,  the  baby,  of  course — now  that  I  have  you 
both  quite  safe  and — er — reasonably  established 
in  health  I  must " 

"  And  there  is  the  new  family  in  my  house,  too, 
and  Mrs.  Salter,  with  another  of  her  spells." 

"  Quite  right — quite  right,  my  dear.  .   .   .  Now 


NEIGHBORS  103 

if  you  will  allow  me  to  bestow  our  son  in  his  crib, 
I  will  go.  You  should  rest  till  tea-time." 

He  left  her  rather  hastily  at  last,  having  inad- 
vertently waked  up  the  baby,  who  began  at  once 
to  exercise  his  inalienable  human  rights,  as  differ- 
entiated from  the  animal  creation. 

He  decided  to  call  upon  the  new  dressmaker 
first,  after  looking  in  for  a  moment  upon  Brother 
George  Trimmer  in  his  place  of  business. 

Though  not  a  shrewd  man  in  the  secular  sense, 
the  minister  had  not  infrequently  been  led  to  med- 
itate upon  the  singular  metamorphosis  which  came 
over  various  members  of  his  flock  at  the  dawning 
of  the  Sabbath.  On  a  Sunday  morning  Elder 
Trimmer  was  invariably  to  be  found  in  his  pew 
in  church,  attired  somberly  in  a  long-tailed  coat, 
once  decreed  by  fashion  as  the  habit  of  a  worldly 
society,  now  by  universal  consent  the  garb  of 
piety.  With  his  Sunday  clothes  Brother  Trim- 
mer, in  common  with  other  members  of  Mr. 
Pettibone's  congregation,  habitually  assumed  an 
expression  of  superior  sanctity.  When  he  walked 
down  the  aisle  with  the  collection  plate,  and  when 
he  stood  before  the  pulpit,  awaiting  the  minister's 
benediction  on  the  perfunctory  pennies  and  nickels 
representing  Innisfield's  benevolent  impulses,  the 
beholders  could  scarcely  help  but  notice  the  sleek- 
ness with  which  his  sparse  hair  had  been  brushed, 


io4  NEIGHBORS 

the  whiteness  of  his  starched  linen  and  the  solemn 
squeak  of  his  Sabbath  shoes.  Elder  George  Trim- 
mer was  an  indispensable  pillar  in  the  house  of 
his  God;  and  he  knew  it.  Without  his  support 
and  presence  "  the  cause "  in  Innisfield  would 
assuredly  languish,  if  not  completely  collapse. 
The  knowledge  of  this  fact  lent  force  and  cogency 
to  his  utterances — more  particularly  when  he  con- 
versed with  his  pastor. 

On  the  present  occasion  Mr.  Trimmer  was 
intrenched  behind  his  desk  when  Mr.  Pettibone 
called,  and  from  this  stronghold  he  vouchsafed 
the  briefest  of  nods  and  an  inarticulate  growl  of 
recognition. 

"  I  see  you  are  busy,  Brother  Trimmer,"  said 
the  minister  politely;  "  I  will  call  again." 

Mr.  Trimmer  waved  his  hand,  with  some  im- 
patience. 

"Sit  down;  sit  down,  sir,"  he  said.  "See 
you  in  a  minute.  Have  something  to  say  to 
you." 

Mr.  Pettibone  declined  to  avail  himself  of  the 
indicated  chair.  "  — er — I  have  a  small  commis- 
sion for  Mrs.  Pettibone,"  he  recollected.  "  I  will 
attend  to  that  first,  if  you  please." 

The  minister's  experienced  eye  had  caught 
sight  of  a  new  clerk  in  the  shoe  department.  As 
he  threaded  his  way  among  the  bargain-laden 


NEIGHBORS  105 

tables  in  the  aisles,  he  continued  to  examine  the 
face  of  the  stranger. 

The  young  man,  unaware  of  his  approach, 
stood  with  folded  arms  staring  at  the  wall  of  yel- 
low shoe-boxes  which  confronted  him;  but  it  was 
evident  to  the  most  casual  observer  that  his  atten- 
tion was  not  focused  upon  the  stock  of  footwear 
in  the  Trimmer  Dry-goods  Emporium.  It  was 
a  handsome,  though  rather  sullen  face,  with  sternly 
compressed  lips  and  a  deep  fold  between  the  gray 
eyes,  which  turned  in  response  to  Mr.  Pettibone's 
question. 

"  Slippers?    Yes,  sir;  what  size?  " 

"  Something  soft — er — and  becoming,  in  a  light 
blue,"  particularized  Mr.  Pettibone. 

"  For  a  lady,"  inferred  the  young  man. 
"  What  size  did  you  say,  sir?  " 

"  Oh — er — as  to  that,  I'm  afraid  I  neglected  to 
inquire.  The  lady  is  small  and  slender." 

"  Better  have  the  lady  come  in  and  try  them  on, 
sir,  if  you  don't  know  the  size." 

Mr.  Pettibone  shook  his  head. 

'  That  would  be  impossible  for  some  weeks 
yet,  I  fear.  The  lady  is — er — at  present  she  is 
unable  to  leave  the  house." 

"  Why  not  bring  in  one  of  the  lady's  shoes, 
then?"  suggested  Mr.  Trimmer's  clerk,  scan- 
ning his  customer  with  faint  amusement. 


106  NEIGHBORS 

"  You  are  a  stranger  in  Innisfield,  I  believe," 
interpolated  Mr.  Pettibone.  "  I  don't  remember 
to  have  seen  you  before." 

"  Haven't  been  here  long,"  admitted  the  young 
man. 

His  brooding  eyes  sought  a  distant  window, 
with  an  expression  vaguely  suggestive  of  a  wild 
creature  unexpectedly  trapped. 

"  Er — permit  me  to  introduce  myself,"  said  the 
minister  pleasantly:  "I  am  Mr.  Pettibone, 
pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church  here.  We 
shall  be  glad  to  make  you  welcome.  Er — what 
was  your  last  place  of  residence?  " 

The  young  man  hurriedly  replaced  the  cover 
on  a  half-open  box. 

"  London,"  he  replied  briefly. 

"  Ah,  indeed !  "  commented  the  minister.  "  But 
I  recall  that  there  is  a  town  by  that  name 
in  a  neighboring  county — am  I  to  under- 
stand  " 

The  handsome,  sullen  face  flushed  darkly. 

"  I  mean  England,"  he  jerked  out.  "  I  was 
born  there." 

"  Well,  well !  "  exclaimed  Mr.  Pettibone,  with 
unaffected  surprise.  "  We  are  all  interested — 
rather  particularly  interested,  I  may  say — in  your 
native  land  at  this  time.  Are  you — er — you  have 
been  here  some  time,  I  suppose?" 


NEIGHBORS  107 

"  A  matter  of  six  months,"  replied  the  young 
man. 

The  dark  flush  had  crept  up  to  the  roots  of  his 
hair.  He  stared  defiantly  at  Mr.  Pettibone. 

"  Then  you  don't  care  to  buy  anything  today, 
sir?" 

This  was  clearly  a  rebuff;  but  the  minister 
inured  to  reprisals  of  the  kind  persevered. 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  your  name  and  address; 
er — I'll  look  at  those  slippers  again  in  just  a 
moment.  Er — you  will,  perhaps,  know  what  size 
small  ladies  usually  wear." 

The  minister  had  taken  a  notebook  and  pencil 
from  his  pocket  and  stood  waiting  with  the  smile 
many  people  found  quite  irresistible. 

The  young  Englishman  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  My  name  is  Hobbs,"  he  said  unwillingly. 
"  Kitchener  Hobbs." 

Mr.  Pettibone,  glancing  up  quickly,  caught  the 
look  which  accompanied  the  simple  statement.  It 
puzzled  him. 

"  Named  for  the  great  soldier — eh?  Sad  thing 
for  England — his  death.  Very  unfortunate,  it 
would  seem.  .  ..  .  And  your  address?" 

"  I  live  upstairs  with  my  mother." 

;'  With  your  mother?    I  was  not  aware " 

Mr.  Hobbs  showed  no  lively  interest  in  Mr. 
Pettibone's  bewilderment.  He  had  pulled  down 


io8  NEIGHBORS 

and  opened  several  boxes  containing  felt  slippers. 

"  Something  like  this,  sir?  "  he  inquired,  civilly 
enough;  "  in  size  three  maybe,  or  four." 

Mr.  Pettibone  restored  his  memorandum  book 
to  his  pocket  and  focused  his  short-sighted  eyes 
upon  a  pair  of  pale  blue  slippers,  adorned  with 
fluffy  pompons  and  a  lavish  display  of  satin 
ribbon. 

"  These  look  about  the  thing,"  he  said,  meas- 
uring the  dainty  trifle  thoughtfully  upon  his  out- 
spread palm.  "  Her  feet  are  slender  and  not 
much  larger  than  a  child's.  .  .  .  You  say  your 
mother — er — Mrs.  Hobbs — am  I  right?" 

"  She  calls  herself — Madam  Louise,"  growled 
the  young  fellow;  "  she's  a  dressmaker." 

"Ah,  yes,  yes!  Now  I  place  you,"  said  Mr. 
Pettibone,  as  he  searched  his  pockets  for  a  certain 
thin  roll  of  bills.  He  appeared  not  to  notice  the 
extreme  reluctance  of  the  reply,  yet  all  the  while 
he  was  keenly  aware  of  it,  and  of  the  deepening 
of  the  frown  between  the  somber  young  eyes. 

"  Now,  why,"  the  minister  asked  himself — as 
he  strode  away,  the  pale  blue  slippers  safely  be- 
stowed in  his  pocket — why  should  this  young 
man,  secure  from  the  perils  and  hardships  of  war, 
and,  one  would  say,  reasonably  well  placed  in 
business — and  for  what  does  he  wear  the  look 
of  a  soul  tormented? 


IT  being  Mr.  Pettibone's  particular  business  to 
search  out  the  answer  to  such  questions,  he 
proceeded  at  once  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Hobbs, 
who  chose  to  call  herself  "  Madame  Louise  " — 
though  for  what  purpose  he  could  only  vaguely 
surmise.  As  he  applied  his  gloved  knuckles  to 
the  door  bearing  the  flourishing  gold  script  of 
mystery,  it  occurred  to  the  minister  that  he  had 
neglected  to  avail  himself  of  Mr.  Trimmer's  invi- 
tation— or  was  it  a  command? — to  return  to  the 
office.  He  knew  from  past  experience  that  he 
would  later  be  obliged  to  pay  for  this  omission, 
Elder  Trimmer's  temper  being  none  of  the  best 
on  any  day  of  the  week.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  he  became  at  once  absorbed  in  the  business 
of  his  calling. 

As  it  happened,  Mrs.  Hobbs'  establishment  was 
at  the  moment  free  from  her  numerous  patrons. 
She  therefore  received  the  minister  graciously, 
betraying  little  of  the  surprise  she  felt  at  his  visit. 
On  his  part,  Mr.  Pettibone — after  begging  the 

lady  to  go  on  with  her  avocation,  which  at  the 

109 


no  NEIGHBORS 

moment  appeared  to  concern  itself  with  an  intri- 
cate arrangement  of  cord  and  buttons  on  a  bodice 
of  peculiar  shape  and  color — seated  himself  and 
gazed  kindly  at  his  hostess. 

"  I  have  just  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  your 
son,"  he  began.  "  He  tells  me  he  is  a  native  of 
England." 

A  flicker  of  Mrs.  Hobbs'  eyelids  and  the  sud- 
den snap  of  her  needle  prefaced  her  reply. 

"  Yes,  sir;  but  I'm  an  American.  I  was  born 
in  Boston." 

"Ah!  "  murmured  Mr.  Pettibone,  aware  of  a 
slight  bristling,  as  of  defiant  feathers.  "  Were 
you — er — long  a  resident  of  England?" 

Mrs.  Hobbs  shot  a  furtive  glance  at  her  ques- 
tioner. What  she  saw  was  a  man  of  dignified 
presence,  well  on  in  middle  life,  his  hair  of  iron 
gray  swept  carelessly  back  from  a  broad  fore- 
head, his  eyes  keen  yet  kindly,  his  mouth  slightly 
humorous,  and  his  chin  square  and  firm.  The 
women  of  his  parish,  for  the  most  part,  liked  Mr. 
Pettibone.  They  found  it  a  comfort  to  tell  him 
their  trials  and  perplexities.  His  advice  and  his 
sympathy  were  alike  welcome. 

"  I  used  to  go  to  the  Unitarian  Church,  before 
I  was  married,"  offered  Mrs.  Hobbs,  after  a 
slight  pause,  during  which  she  set  several  random 
stitches  in  her  work;  "  but  after  we  moved  to  the 


NEIGHBORS  in 

old  country  I  got  confirmed.  My  husband  was 
a  churchman." 

There  was  pride,  of  a  sort,  in  the  state- 
ment and  a  veiled  protest  which  reached  its 
mark. 

"  If  you  are  an  Episcopalian,"  said  Mr.  Petti- 
bone  hastily,  "  I  shall  not  presume  to  urge  the 
claims  of  my  own  church  upon  you.  It  is  my 
custom,  however,  to  call  upon  all  newcomers,  for 
the  purpose  of  ascertaining  their  church  affilia- 
tions. More  than  once,  I  am  glad  to  tell  you,  I 
have  been  able  to  be  of  service,  in  the  way  of  find- 
ing a  church  home  for  strangers." 

"  Well,  we  ain't  been  to  church  since  we  came 
back  to  America,"  stated  Mrs.  Hobbs.  "  Hoddy, 
he  don't  care  much  for  church,  and  I — well,  I've 
been  kind  of  busy." 

The  woman's  expression  appeared  to  shut  the 
door  upon  further  inquiry.  Mr.  Pettibone  paused 
to  reflect,  the  memory  of  the  gloomy  young  face 
below  stairs  recurring  to  his  mind. 

"  Most  people  need  friends,"  he  said  persua- 
sively. "  And  I'll  venture  to  tell  you,  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  that  I  could  not  help  seeing  that  your 
son " 

He  paused  to  choose  his  words  with  care: 

"  Er — in  short,  he  struck  me  as  being  de- 
pressed, perhaps  I  would  better  say  harassed 


ii2  NEIGHBORS 

over  something.  Young  men  interest  me  strongly. 
I — er — have  a  son,  myself,  growing  up." 

The  woman's  stiff  features  unbent  in  a  smile. 

"  Your  son  ain't  so  very  old,  is  he? — If  you're 
the  Mr.  Pettibone  I've  heard  my  customers  tell 
about  in  the  shop." 

The  minister's  pale  face  became  suffused  with 
youthful  color,  but  he  achieved  his  reply  with 
creditable  dignity. 

"  The  fact  that  my  son  is — er — still  in  his 
infancy  does  not  impugn  my  statement,"  he  said 
strongly.  "  If  a  young  person,  of  either  sex,  is 
unhappy,  that  person  is,  in  my  opinion,  liable  to 
peculiar  temptation." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  Well,  I  don't  know  as  I  mind  telling  you 
what  ails  my  boy,"  she  said:  "  He  was  set  and 
determined  on  going  to  the  war." 

"Ah!" 

The  monosyllable,  exhaled  mildly  from  the 
minister's  lips  expressed  his  sudden  illumination, 
tinged  with  a  certain  inchoate  sympathy. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  glanced  at  him  suspiciously,  her 
needle  like  a  slim  dagger  poised  in  air. 

"  I  guess  you  wouldn't  want  your  boy  put 
down  in  a  nasty  muddy  trench  to  be  fired  at,"  she 
said. 

"  No,"     said     Mr.     Pettibone,     drawing    his 


NEIGHBORS  113 

brows  together.     "No;  I  should  not.  .    .    .  And 


yet " 

"  For  goodness  sake !  I  hope  you  ain't  going 
to  encourage  him  in  any  such  foolishness!  "  cried 
Mrs.  Hobbs,  with  sudden  sharpness.  "  It  was  all 
I  could  do  to  coax  him  over  here  to  America, 
where  he'd  be  safe.  I  got  down  on  my  knees  to 
my  own  child,  I  did !  An'  even  then  he  wouldn't 
have  come,  but  the  doctor  said  I  had  heart  trouble 
an'  was  liable  to  die  most  any  minute,  if  I  got 
excited." 

Mr.  Pettibone  gazed  at  the  woman  with  strong 
kindness  in  his  eyes.  But  he  offered  no  comment 
on  what  she  had  said. 

After  a  moment  of  silence  she  went  on : 

"  I'm  willing  to  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  for 
Hoddy,  and  he  knows  it.  Yet  all  he  thinks  about 
day  and  night  is  getting  back  to  England.  I 
guess  he  wants  to  get  killed  and  leave  me — 
alone." 

Her  voice  trailed  off  in  a  sob.  She  wiped  her 
eyes  on  the  gaudy  garment  she  was  fashioning. 

"  But  I  tell  him  I'll  jab  a  hatpin  through  my 
heart  before  I  let  him  go.  And  I  will,  too!  I'm 
not  going  to  give  up  my  son  to  any  old  King  or 
Czar;  why  should  I?  I'm  an  American." 

Is  your  husband ?  I  suppose  Mr.  Hobbs 

is  not  living?  " 


n4  NEIGHBORS 

Mr.  Pettibone's  voice,  like  his  eyes,  conveyed 
his  perplexed  compassion. 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  Hobbs,  after  a  pause,  "  I 
call  myself  a  widow.  But  I  don't  know  whether 
Hobbs  is  dead  or  alive.  I  don't  care  so  much, 
either.  He  was  a  seafaring  man.  He  never 
came  back  from  his  last  voyage.  They  said  he 
deserted  in  a  China  port.  But  folks  have  a  way 
of  disappearing  in  those  parts,  and  you  never  can 
tell.  .  .  .  That  was  years  ago." 

The  minister  nodded  thoughtfully. 

"  I  see — I  see,"  he  murmured.  "  You  have 
only  your  boy." 

The  sudden  passion  of  mother-love  which  flared 
up  in  the  woman's  sallow  face  startled  him.  It 
was  as  if  the  sun  had  suddenly  burst  forth  upon 
a  sodden  landscape,  glorifying  it  to  an  evanescent 
splendor.  Yet  she  only  said,  with  a  sigh: 

"  Hoddy's  always  been  a  good  boy." 

"  He  seems  an  intelligent  fellow,"  Mr.  Petti- 
bone  recollected  vaguely. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  he  should  be  going,  in 
order  to  compass  the  other  visits  he  had  planned. 

"  He's  had  the  best  of  schooling,"  Mrs.  Hobbs 
said  proudly.  "  I  had  a  shop  in  London,  sir. 
Hobbs  set  me  up  in  a  small  way,  for  fear,  as 
he  said,  something  might  'appen  to  him.  When 
the  war  broke  out  my  boy  was  nearly  through 


NEIGHBORS  115 

the  London  Technical  School.  He'd  have  fin- 
ished in  another  six  months.  But  when  it  came 
to  enlisting  for  the  war  and  talk  of  conscription, 
I  sold  out  and  came  straight  home.  ...  I  guess 
I  had  a  right  to  come  home.  I  wasn't  no  Lon- 
doner. And  my  boy's  American,  if  he  was  born 
on  the  other  side." 

"  He  wouldn't  acknowledge  it,"  said  Mr.  Petti- 
bone,  as  he  rose  to  go.  "  He  told  me  his  name 
was  Kitchener  Hobbs." 

"  That  was  his  father's  doings,"  Mrs.  Hobbs 
said  fretfully.  "  I  wanted  to  call  him  George 
Washington;  but  my  husband  was  a  Britisher, 
through  and  through.  He  named  him  Horatio 
Herbert  Kitchener." 

She  followed  her  visitor  to  the  door,  trailing 
dropped  spools  and  lengths  of  scarlet  cord  behind 
her. 

"  I  don't  want  my  affairs  talked  about,"  she 
said,  as  the  minister  shook  her  limp  hand  at  part- 
ing. "  We  want  to  keep  to  ourselves  and  not 
bother  with  anybody,  me  and  Hoddy.  I  can't  say 
what  possessed  me  to  tell  you  what  I  did.  But 
if  you  could  keep  Hoddy's  mind  off  soldiering,  I 
might  maybe " 

'  You  may  trust  my  discretion,  madam,"  Mr. 
Pettibone  assured  her;  "and  I  shall  be  glad  of 
another  opportunity  of  talking  with  your  boy." 


n6  NEIGHBORS 

The  sun  was  near  its  setting  as  the  minister 
walked  slowly  down  the  long  village  street,  his 
hands  folded  loosely  behind  him.  He  noted  ab- 
stractedly the  bands  of  pale  yellow  and  amethyst 
deepening  to  dull  crimson,  which  made  of  the 
arched  vista  of  naked  boughs  a  groined  window 
more  splendid  than  that  of  any  cathedral.  He 
was  thinking  over  his  late  interview  with  Mrs. 
Hobbs,  and  in  the  light  of  it  interpreting — albeit 
in  a  somewhat  sober  and  middle-aged  fashion — 
the  look  he  had  seen  on  the  face  of  George  Trim- 
mer's shoe  clerk.  It  was  difficult  for  Mr.  Petti- 
bone  to  comprehend  the  position  of  the  young 
Englishman,  yet  in  spite  of  himself  he  found  his 
sympathy  going  out  to  him,  rather  than  to  the 
woman. 

"  I  cannot  approve  of  warfare,"  mused  Mr. 
Pettibone,  shaking  his  head:  "Warfare  is  un- 
civilized, degrading,  even  brutalizing;  and  yet — 
no  woman  has  the  right  to  strangle  the  convic- 
tions of  a  man." 

He  was  still  pondering  these  paradoxical  con- 
clusions when  he  arrived  before  the  rather  dilapi- 
dated cottage,  bearing  the  brilliantly  new  sign  of 
Malvina  Bennett,  dressmaker. 


XI 

OLD  Mrs.  Bennett  opened  the  door  in  re- 
sponse to  Mr.  Pettibone's  knock.  She  was 
a  very  small  and  withered  old  woman  with 
bent  shoulders,  which  appeared  in  some  remote 
period  of  time  to  have  absorbed  the  semblance 
of  a  neck. 

She  peered  suspiciously  at  the  minister  over  the 
rims  of  her  old-fashioned  steel  spectacles. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  step  inside,"  she  said. 
"  The  air  drors  is  something  terrible  when  the 
door's  open." 

The  pent-up  atmosphere  within  the  little  house 
appeared  to  be  clamoring  for  reinforcements;  in 
it  were  reminiscences  of  boiled  vegetables,  fried 
things,  kerosene,  feather  beds  of  ancient  lineage 
and  descent,  of  well-conserved  black  clothes  and 
old  stuffed  furniture,  with  the  more  insistent 
aroma  of  a  chill  cellar,  where  lingered  the  ghosts 
of  vegetables,  pickles,  and  smoked  meats.  Old 
Mrs.  Bennett  blinked  vaguely  at  the  tall  man  in 
the  dimly  lighted  passage. 

"Be  you  the  sewin'-m'chine  agent?"  she  de- 

"7 


n8  NEIGHBORS 

manded,  in  her  high  quavering  voice.  "  Because 
if  you  be,  Malviny  says " 

"  Pardon  me,  Mrs.  Bennett,"  the  minister 
interrupted  in  his  unruffled  voice.  "  I  see  you 
fail  to  remember  me — I  am  Mr.  Pettibone,  pastor 
of  the  Presbyterian  Church.  I  had  the  pleasure 
of  calling  upon  you  last  winter." 

"  Well,  that  cert'nly  is  one  on  me !  "  crowed 
the  old  lady.  .  .  .  "Malviny!  Malviny!" 

The  sound  of  a  sewing-machine  driven  at  full 
speed  ceased  at  the  strident  call,  and  Miss  Ben- 
nett's voice  issued  from  the  stuffy  little  room  in 
the  rear  of  the  hall: 

"What  is  it,  Ma?" 

"  Here's  the  minister  come  t'  call,  'n'  I  went  'n' 
mistook  him  f'r  th'  sewin'-m'chine  agent !  " 

Miss  Malvina,  instant  with  apology  and  ex- 
planation, piloted  Mr.  Pettibone  to  the  parlor, 
where  a  sofa  and  several  chairs  covered  with 
black  hair-cloth  presided  over  a  marble-topped 
table  whose  chief  ornament  was  a  symbolic  cross, 
wrought  in  waxwork  in  the  days  of  Miss  Malvi- 
na's  youth  and  carefully  guarded  from  the  tooth 
of  time  by  a  glass  cover. 

"  Ma's  eyesight  ain't  s'  very  good  lately," 
offered  Miss  Malvina,  "  'n'  my  sewin'-m'chine 
makes  sech  a  racket  I  can't  hear  m'self  think." 

"  I  suppose  you're  busy,  as  usual,"  chimed  in 


NEIGHBORS  119 

the  minister  cheerfully.  He  was  thinking  his  wife 
must  have  been  mistaken  about  the  new  dress- 
maker. Surely  there  should  be  work  enough  in 
Innisfield  for  both  women. 

"  I  suppose  mebbe  Philura — I  mean  Mis'  Rev'- 
ren'  Pettibone — must  'a'  told  you?"  she  said  in 
a  low  tone,  not  meant  for  the  ears  of  Ma. 

"You  mean ?" 

Miss  Malvina  nodded  and  hitched  her  chair 
closer  to  the  minister's. 

"  I've  kep'  it  from  Ma,  so  far.  I  don't  want 
her  t'  git  all  riled  up.  .  .  .  You  know  how  'tis 
with  a  person  o'  her  age.  .  .  .  Course  I  ain't 
talkin'  'bout  it  t'  most  other  folks,  neither;  but 
that  there  Madam  Louise — well,  I  don't  mind 
tellin'  my  minister  she's  took  my  cust'mers  right 
away  from  me :  folks  I'd  done  fer  sense  they  was 
babies." 

"  This  is  really  distressing,  Miss  Malvina," 
said  the  minister,  "  and  to  think  that  all  this  time 

I  have  neglected You  perhaps  recall  the 

circumstances  connected  with  your  bringing 
Mrs.  Pettibone's — er — robe,  if  that  is  the  proper 
term  for  so  beautiful  a  garment — to  the  par- 
sonage." 

He  had  drawn  the  depleted  roll  of  bills  from 
his  pocket  and  was  gazing  at  Miss  Bennett,  his 
kind  face  puckered  with  distress. 


120  NEIGHBORS 

The  little  dressmaker  threw  herself  back  in  her 
chair  with  a  tragic  gesture  of  dismay. 

"  Ef  I  ain't  always  a-puttin'  my  foot  in!  "  she 
exclaimed.  .  .  .  "Ma!  Seems  t'  me  I  smell 
them  turnips  burnin';  put  some  more  water  in  the 
pot,  will  you?  " 

On  the  heels  of  Mrs.  Bennett's  departure  her 
daughter  turned  again  to  the  minister. 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  take  a  cent  for  makin'  that 
there  negligee,"  she  said  positively.  ;'  Tain't 
much  I  kin  do  fer  folks,  but  makin'  up  them  light 
blue  goods  f'r  Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone  was  a 
reel  pleasure,  'n'  sewin'  on  th'  lace  'n'  all.  I  kep* 
a-thinkin'  all  th'  while  how  perfec'ly  sweet  she 
was  a-goin'  t'  look  a-holdin'  her  baby  up  against 
them  satin  bows.  ...  I  hope  'n'  pray  he  don't 
spile  'em." 

"  But  my  dear  Miss  Malvina,"  protested  Mr. 
Pettibone.  "  Let  me  assure  you  that  while  we 
appreciate  to  the  full  your " 

"  I  didn't  tell  you  everythin',"  interrupted  the 
little  dressmaker.  "  The  Lord's  b'en  reel  good 
t'  me,  'n'  I'm  's  prosp'rous  an'  contented  's  a 
mouse  in  a  cheese.  I'll  tell  you,  I  jes'  took 
th'  bit  in  m'  teeth  an'  went  'n'  interviewed  that 


woman- 


4  You  mean  Mrs.  Hobbs?" 
Miss  Malvina  nodded  briskly. 


NEIGHBORS  121 

"  She  can't  no  more  dressmake  'n'  a  cat  c'n  sing. 
I'm  helpin'  her  out." 

"You  are  helping?" 

"  Finishin'  off  'n'  like  that.  But  I  don't  take  no 
respons'bility  on  my  shoulders  for  patterns;  an'  of 

all  th'  redic'lous Jest  you  wait  tell  you  see 

Mis'  Obed  Salter  an'  Mis'  Undertaker  Beels 
a-walkin'  down  the  center  aisle  a-Sunday.  I'll  bet 
you'll  forget  your  text.  .  .  .  But  there !  I  ought 
n't  to  'a'  spoke  that-away." 

Mrs.  Bennett  sailed  into  the  room,  her  ancient 
nose  in  the  air.  "  Nex'  time  you  want  t'  git  red 
o'  me,  Malviny,"  she  said,  "  you  don't  need  t' 
tell  no  lie :  them  turnips  wa'n't  even  bilin' !  " 

Mr.  Pettibone  arose  with  haste. 

u  Can  you — er — tell  me  anything  concerning 
your  new  neighbors?  "  he  asked.  "  I  had  thought 
of  calling  there." 

"Well,  I  sh'd  remark!  "  chirruped  Miss  Mal- 
vina.  "  I  feel  's  o'  I  know  'em  intimate — what 
with  helpin'  'em  clean  an'  settle,  an'  Mad'lane 
runnin'  in  th'  back  door,  friendly,  most  any  min- 
ute. I'm  teachin'  her  t'  talk,  so  's  folks  c'n  under- 
stan'  what  she's  tryin'  t'  say  ...  I  had  t'  laugh, 
first  off.  But  she's  reel  bright  'n'  ketches  on 
somethin'  wonderful.  Her  pa  c'n  talk  pretty 
good,  considerin'  he's  fur'n.  Course  he  can't 
help  that!  Yes,  sir;  Mr.  Dassay  is  what  /  call 


122  NEIGHBORS 

a  reel  gent'man.  'N'  outside  present  comp'ny, 
the'  ain't  many  of  'em  t'  be  found  in  this  'ere 
town." 

Mr.  Pettibone  walked  home  quickly  in  the  early 
darkness,  which  greeted  him  as  he  emerged  upon 
the  old  familiar  doorstep  of  the  house  which  had 
sheltered  the  sober  late  blooming  of  his  second 
courtship  and  marriage.  He  seldom  thought  of 
his  first  wife  in  these  days;  many  years  had 
elapsed  since  he  believed  his  broken  heart  buried 
deep  beneath  the  rough  sod  of  the  village  church- 
yard. And  in  truth  something  of  himself — his 
young  manhood,  his  shattered  dreams  of  future 
happiness,  the  fervent  upspringing  of  his  spirit  to 
hers — had  never  risen  from  the  chill  silence  which 
enshrouded  her  there.  But  today  a  look  in  the  soft 
dark  eyes  of  Madelaine  Desaye,  something  in  the 
graceful  bend  of  her  head  as  she  sat  modestly 
listening  to  the  somewhat  labored  conversation 
between  her  father  and  himself,  had  brought  back 
the  vivid  image  of  Mary.  And  now,  as  he  hurried 
homeward,  she  seemed  flitting  by  his  side  in  the 
deepening  twilight,  as  beautiful,  as  loving,  as 
when  in  her  first  youth  she  had  given  herself  to 
him. 

He  half  put  out  his  hand  to  the  unsubstantial 
presence,  then  as  quickly  withdrew  it.  There  was 
no  bridging  of  the  chasm  possible.  And  were  it 


NEIGHBORS  123 

possible,  he  knew  he  would  not  choose  to  call  her 
back.  .  .  . 

The  mother  of  his  son  sat  waiting  for  him  by 
the  study  fire.  There  was  a  warm  rose  of  wel- 
come in  her  uplifted  face  which  vanished  at  the 
touch  of  his  cold  lips. 

"What  has  happened,  Silas?"  she  asked 
quickly.  "  You  look  pale  and " 

"  Nothing — nothing  at  all,  my  dear  Philura," 
he  assured  her.  "  It  is  damp  and — er — chilly  out- 
side, and  I — I  believe  I  am  a  little  tired.  Parish 
visiting  is  never  an  easy  task." 

She  watched  him  anxiously  while  they  were  eat- 
ing their  supper,  and  uneasily  aware  of  her  search- 
ing eyes  he  made  a  conscious  effort  to  entertain 
her,  telling  her  of  Mrs.  Hobbs  and  her  English 
son;  of  the  generosity  of  Malvina  Bennett — at 
which  she  demurred — and  finally  of  his  visit  to 
the  Desayes. 

She  presently  forgot  her  uneasiness  in  eager 
questions  about  the  father  and  daughter,  the  fur- 
nishing of  the  house  and  the  probable  permanency 
of  her  new  tenants. 

"  If  they'll  only  stay  all  summer,  Silas,  we  can 
buy  the  Ford  runabout.  You  could  sell  the  horse 
and  buggy,  and  the  barn  will  do  perfectly,  just  as 
it  is.  It  would  be  such  a  help  in  out  of  town  calls, 
dear." 


i24  NEIGHBORS 

He  did  not  deny  this;  and  the  curious  sense  of 
aloofness  which  she  had  felt  like  a  chill  mist  be- 
tween them  gradually  disappeared  in  the  sunshine 
of  renewed  domesticity. 

"  That  Frenchman,  Desaye,"  he  told  her,  "  is  a 
most  interesting  person.  It  seems  he  is  a  native 
of  Alsace,  and  at  the  outbreak  of  the  war,  fearing 
reprisals  from  his  German  neighbors,  with  whom 
he  had  never  been  on  the  best  of  terms,  he  decided 
— wisely  or  unwisely — to  come  to  America.  They 
have  some  small  means,  I  should  say.  But  whether 
they  will  remain  in  Innisfield  or  not  depends 
wholly  upon  circumstances." 

"  You  mean  whether  they  like  it  here  or  not?  " 
she  inquired. 

"  Precisely,  my  dear.  And  that,  as  the  boys 
say,  '  is  up  to  us'." 

He  still  seemed  struggling  with  some  unknown 
depression,  difficult  to  shake  off.  Her  eyes  tim- 
idly questioned  his,  but  without  response. 

"  Then  they  are  not  Catholics?  " 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  Such  religion  as  they  have  bears  no  theolog- 
ical brand,"  he  said  dryly. 

"  And  you're  quite  sure  you  feel  well,  Silas?  " 

He  arose  from  the  supper-table  with  his  usual 
'dignified  deliberation. 

"  My  dear  Philura,"  he  said,  "  Why  will  you 


NEIGHBORS  125 

persist  in  supposing  me  ill?  Isn't  it  one 
of  your  bed-rock  principles  to  —  er  —  think 
health?'' 

She  lowered  her  eyes. 
'  Yes,  Silas,"  she  said  meekly. 

He  worked  diligently  in  his  study  that  evening, 
covering  uncounted  large  pages  with  a  dissertation 
on  the  life  and  labors  of  Saint  Paul,  garnered 
from  the  shelves  of  his  library  and  the  recesses 
of  his  own  well-stored  mind.  It  was  past  eleven 
o'clock  when  he  finally  placed  the  cap-sheaf  of  a 
triumphant  martyrdom  on  the  apostolic  career. 
The  house  was  very  quiet,  so  quiet  that  the  soft 
thud  of  snow  against  the  window  was  distinctly 
audible.  He  arose,  crossed  the  floor  noiselessly 
in  his  slippered  feet  and  looked  out.  All  sem- 
blance of  spring  had  vanished  in  the  whirling 
drift;  it  might  have  been  January,  and  yet  it  was 
April,  and  all  this  show  and  bluster  of  winter 
must  shortly  disappear  before  the  advancing  sun. 
Half  against  his  will,  his  thoughts  reverted  once 
more  to  the  revery  of  the  early  evening  and  his 
subsequent  discomfiture  under  the  blue  eyes  of 
Philura.  Was  it  a  species  of  infidelity  to  her  to 
return  to  his  lost  Mary — even  in  memory?  He 
swept  his  hand  across  his  tired  eyes.  Life  was  a 
strange,  long  journey,  at  best,  and  one  must  travel 
it,  for  the  most  part,  alone,  with  only  thoughts 


126  NEIGHBORS 

—unseen,    unknown,    and    often    unbidden — for 
company. 

A  faint,  wailing  cry  from  above  roused  him. 
Then  the  sound  of  her  gentle  foot  on  the  floor. 
Was  the  response  of  the  Infinite  Affection  as 
sure? 


XII 

IF  Etienne  Desaye  had  ever  regretted  his 
hastily  formed  decision  to  immigrate  to 
America  he  never  confessed  it  to  his  daugh- 
ter Madeleine.  He  had  likewise  refrained  from 
telling  her  what  unspeakable  things  he  feared  in 
the  land  of  their  nativity.  He  contented  himself 
with  praising  America.  It  was  a  safe  place,  he 
declared,  for  persons  like  themselves,  being  far 
removed  from  the  tumult  and  dangers  of  war  and 
withal  hospitable  to  strangers.  One  might  have 
supposed  from  listening  to  the  worthy  gentleman's 
dissertations  on  the  land  of  his  adoption  that  the 
splendid  song  of  the  Nativity  had  been  composed 
and  rendered  by  angelic  choirs  solely — or  at  least 
chiefly — for  the  town  of  Boston.  It  was  here 
that  the  wanderers  first  found  refuge,  and  where 
for  a  matter  of  six  months  they  remained,  living 
in  a  dark,  illy-ventilated  flat  in  South  Boston,  a 
locality  which  was — they  discovered  shortly — as 
different  as  could  be  well  imagined  from  any  city, 
town,  or  village  of  France.  Rents  were  high,  pro- 
visions of  an  unthinkable  expense,  and  service  im- 
possible to  procure.  It  was  during  these  initial 

127 


128  NEIGHBORS 

weeks  that  Madeleine,  a  mere  child  up  to  this 
time,  became  the  practical  woman  of  affairs.  She 
learned  to  market  and  to  cook,  and  the  touch  of 
her  light  hand  kept  all  things  clean  and  well 
ordered — or  so  it  seemed  to  her  father,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  hours  his  child  spent  in  noiseless 
dusting  and  polishing  while  he  slept,  rousing  for 
his  chocolate,  when  Madeleine  brought  it  steam- 
ing to  his  bedside. 

In  the  first  days  of  spring,  when  bunches  of 
wilted  violets  and  the  rarer  arbutus  began  to  be 
hawked  about  the  streets  the  girl  begged  for  the 
country. 

"  This  American  town  is  very  ugly,  mon  pere" 
she  said  piteously;  "  and  in  the  summer  this  apart- 
ment will  be  too  warm  under  its  roof  of  tin. 
Think  also  of  a  street  named  Milk!  " 

M.  Desaye  raised  abstracted  eyes  from  the 
book  in  which  he  had  buried  his  regrets. 

"You  wish  again  to  remove?"  he  inquired 
mildly ;  "  but  where  ?  Do  you  not  find  these  rooms 
sufficiently  commodious?  It  is  true  that  the  town 
is  ugly;  but  what  would  you?  We  are  far  from 
France." 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly. 

Madeleine  explained. 

Even  in  America  one  might  find  trees  and  grass, 
of  a  sort,  she  stated.  There  were  also  small  cot- 


NEIGHBORS  129 

tages,  where  one  might  dwell,  in  localities  where 
eggs  and  vegetables  could  be  procured  of  an  in- 
dubitable freshness.  Her  young  eyes  were  eager, 
her  cheeks  flushed  with  hope. 

It  is  probable  that  M.  Desaye  would  have  con- 
tinued to  occupy  the  dreary  little  flat  in  South 
Boston  without  thought  of  change,  since  in  the 
privacy  of  his  own  mind  he  had  already  con- 
demned America — and  in  particular  Boston — as 
a  most  undesirable  place  of  residence.  He  had 
made  a  mistake,  he  told  himself,  to  be  somehow 
endured  till  the  war  was  at  an  end.  He  would 
then  return  to  France,  settle  in  some  unmolested 
village,  where  in  good  time  he  would  arrange  a 
suitable  marriage  for  his  daughter.  During  the 
months — or  years — which  must  necessarily  elapse 
before  this  desirable  denouement,  he  had  his  be- 
loved books,  and  for  the  rest  little  mattered.  But 
he  was  a  good  father,  mindful — when  not  too 
absorbed  in  his  literary  pursuits — of  his  mother- 
less child.  So  the  brief  conversation  resulted  in 
various  pilgrimages  to  more  or  less  ugly  suburbs 
— where  the  rents  were  of  a  highness!  And 
finally,  by  the  merest  chance  to  a  town  further 
away,  amid  real  trees  and  fields,  with  country  roads 
and  farms  not  far  distant.  Here  was  a  vacant 
house,  with  the  sun  looking  in  through  its  small- 
paned  windows;  here  also  were  shade-trees,  shrubs, 


130  NEIGHBORS 

plenty  of  space  for  flowers  in  beds  and  borders, 
and  best  of  all  an  indubitable  apple-tree  with 
promise  of  abundant  fruitage  already  visible  on 
its  gnarled  boughs. 

Here  Madeleine,  a  fresher  rose  blooming  in  her 
cheeks,  was  presently  singing  about  her  work, 
which  appeared  less  irksome  than  in  the  ugly  city 
rooms.  And  here  also,  M.  Desaye,  once  more 
content,  resigned  himself  to  the  narcotic  soothing 
of  his  books,  satisfied  that  when  the  proper  time 
arrived  for  the  marriage  of  Madeleine  the  dove 
of  peace  would  be  brooding  his  distracted  country. 
He  even  permitted  himself  to  hope  that  his  be- 
loved Alsace  might  be  restored  to  France,  with  all 
her  drooping  lilies  freshened  into  new  beauty.  But 
of  this  soaring  aspiration  he  said  nothing,  bitterly 
realizing  the  Teuton  prowess.  Even  in  American 
towns  and  villages  one's  eyes  and  ears  were  con- 
stantly assailed  by  uncouth  German  names  and 
the  dissonant  speech  of  the  foe.  But  what  would 
you?  It  was  always  possible  to  avoid  such  per- 
sons— "Cochons!"  M.  Desaye  characterized 
them  under  indignant  breath — which  epithet  as 
a  matter  of  course,  is  to  be  metaphorically  inter- 
preted. As  for  the  Americans — as  it  pleased  the 
English-speaking  inhabitants  of  this  crude,  almost 
barbaric  country  to  call  themselves — one  might 
spend  a  not  unprofitable  period  in  studying  their 


NEIGHBORS  131 

strange  customs.  To  this  end  M.  Desaye  ap- 
plied himself  with  some  diligence  to  the  mastery 
of  the  English  tongue. 

It  was  a  bete  of  a  language,  being  entirely  lack- 
ing in  the  facile  grace  of  the  French;  but  again, 
what  would  you  ?  The  few — the  very  few  persons 
he  had  met  in  America  who  professed  to  speak 
his  own  language  accomplished  such  excruciating 
torture  of  his  sensitive  ears  that  he  begged  them 
almost  with  tears  to  desist.  "  Your  pardon, 
Madame  (or  Monsieur)" — as  the  case  might  be 
— •"  but  I  will  spik  to  you  V Anglais,"  he  would 
say  with  dignity.  There  was  a  certain  fat,  blank 
book  reposing  in  M.  Desaye's  escritoire  in  which 
from  time  to  time  he  wrote  in  careful  French  his 
impressions  of  "  The  Natives  of  America."  Some- 
where in  the  back  of  his  brain  lurked  the  secret 
aspiration  of  one  day  achieving  a  literary  reputa- 
tion ;  and  why  not  begin  with  these  deliberate  and 
profound  studies  of  foreign  life,  as  he  was  now 
beholding  it? 

Miss  Malvina  Bennett  was  very  far  from  real- 
izing the  sort  of  interest  she  had  aroused  in  her 
neighbor.  But  she  found  a  new  zest  in  living  as 
the  spring  advanced  and  the  yard  next  door  began 
to  bud  and  blossom  under  the  intelligent  care  of 
the  Desayes.  It  was  pleasant  to  sit  by  her  low 
window-sill,  which  afforded  a  convenient  resting- 


132  NEIGHBORS 

place  for  spools,  buttons,  and  other  properties  of 
her  trade,  and  likewise  commanded  a  sweeping 
view  of  the  neighboring  garden  and  front  porch. 

"  He's  a-settin'  out  on  the  stoop  this  mornin', 
with  his  book,  es  usual,"  she  would  tell  her 
mother.  "  An'  Mad'lane's  got  her  dish-towels 
spread  on  th'  barb'ry  bush  t'  dry.  Now  she's 
diggin'  her  posies;  did  y'  ever  see  the  beat  o' 
them  two?" 

And  Ma  Bennett  would  draw  her  far-seeing 
specs  over  her  faded  eyes  and  gaze  and  gaze  at 
the  spectacle  of  M.  Desaye  in  a  frogged  velvet 
coat,  slowly  turning  the  pages  of  his  book,  and  of 
the  light  figure  of  the  girl  coming  and  going  in  her 
pink  cotton  frock. 

"Land,  Malviny!"  she  would  say,  "  ef  he 
ain't  started  up  t'  come  over  here  ag'in.  What 
in  creation  c'n  he  want  this  time  o'  day?" 

Not  being  in  the  secret  of  the  fat  blank  book, 
which  by  now  boasted  several  pages  covered  with 
exquisite  script  recording  the  writer's  impressions 
of  "  Une  Couturlere  d'Amerique"  Miss  Malvina 
could  only  speculate  vaguely  as  to  the  motives 
which  brought  her  neighbor  so  frequently  to  her 
door.  After  one  or  two  occasions  devoted  to  cer- 
emonial interviews  in  the  hair-cloth  parlor,  Miss 
Malvina  decided  not  "  t'  make  comp'ny  "  of  the 
gentleman  from  foreign  parts. 


NEIGHBORS  133 

"  'Tain't  as  if  he  was  a  reg'lar  man"  she  told 
Ma;  "he's  's  differ'nt  from  th'  men-folks  'round 
here  's  chalk  is  from  cheese." 

Having  arrived  at  this  sagacious  conclusion, 
Miss  Malvina  fell  into  the  easy  habit  of  permit- 
ting M.  Desaye  and  his  daughter  the  freedom  of 
the  kitchen,  where  she  kept  her  sewing-machine 
during  the  months  when  fire  was  a  necessity. 

"  Set  right  down  in  th'  rockin'-cheer,"  she 
would  say  hospitably.  "  I  c'n  stitch  up  this  'ere 
seam  in  two  jerks  of  a  lamb's  tail,  then  we  c'n 
talk." 

On  a  radiant  afternoon  in  early  May  behold 
them  thus:  Miss  Malvina  industriously  binding 
the  seams  of  a  "  robe  "  destined  to  enhance  the 
fading  charms  of  Mrs.  Obed  Salter;  Ma  sleepily 
knitting,  while  the  cat  played  with  her  ball  of 
yarn  under  the  table,  and  M.  Desaye  paying  dili- 
gent heed  to  the  little  dressmaker's  fluent  conver- 
sation. After  various  unsuccessful  attempts  to 
master  her  frequent  and  remarkable  figures  of 
speech  M.  Desaye  had  concluded  that  English 
was  a  vastly  more  malleable  language  than  he  had 
at  first  supposed  it.  He  now  resorted  to  the 
Socratic  method: 

"  Mees  Malvina,"  he  observed  blandly,  "  I  'ave 
hear  you  spik  of  two  jerk  of  ze  tail  of  ze  lamb. 
I  have  in  my  dictionnalre  earnestly  sought  zose 


i34  NEIGHBORS 

words;  but  as  yet  I  do  not  comprehen'  ze  meaning. 
You  will  of  your  kin'ness  tell  me  if  I  also  s'ould 
spik  zose  words,  and  on  what  occasion?" 

Miss  Bennett  gazed  pityingly  at  her  visitor.  He 
was  a  personable  figure  of  a  man,  though  regret- 
tably foreign  in  his  appearance.  Even  his  gar- 
ments, though  well-fitting  and  of  fine  material,  did 
not  in  the  least  resemble  American  store  clothes. 
His  eyes,  very  dark  and  keen,  appeared  to  emit 
occasional  sparkles  of  disconcerting  mirth. 

Miss  Malvina  sniffed  tentatively. 

"  I  don'  know  as  I  ever  give  th'  subjec'  any 
earnest  consid'ration,"  she  said  thoughtfully. 
"  You  ain't  obliged  t'  say  it :  but  'twon't  hurt  you 
none  t'  learn  t'  talk  like  civilized  folks." 

"  Voila!  "  he  exclaimed  eagerly;  "  zat  is  w'at  I 
wish — to  spik  quite  correct.  You  will  teach  me 
—eh?" 

He  smiled  engagingly,  the  corners  of  his  up- 
turned mustache  lending  an  agreeable  emphasis  to 
his  words. 

"  I  s'all  learn — n'est-ce-pas?  in  one — two  jerk 
of  a  lamb-tail — eh?  .  .  .  Do  I  say  exactement?  " 

Miss  Malvina  cackled. 

"  You  cert'nly  do  beat  th'  Dutch !  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  But  you  might's  well  leave  the  pa  an' 
ma  off  your  remarks.  .  .  .  Mebbe  I'd  better  turn 
to  an'  learn  French;  I  says  t'  Mad'lane  yiste'day, 


NEIGHBORS  135 

'  Bong  swore,'  I  says,  jest  like  that.    You'd  ought 
t'  'a'  heard  her  laugh." 

M.  Desaye  looked  pained. 

"  My  daughter  is  young — excessivement — an' 
w'at  you  call  foolish,"  he  said. 

He  shook  his  head: 

"  Do  not,  I  beg,  attempt  to  spik  our  language. 
It  ees  too——" 

"  Oh,  'tain't  so  bad  as  I  thought,  first  off,"  in- 
terrupted Miss  Malvina  kindly.  "  I'll  bet  I'll  be 
parly-vooin'  's  well  's  th'  next  one,  b'fore  you 
know  it.  'T  would  be  kind  o'  fun,  I  think.  Me 
an'  Mad'lane's  gittin'  long  first-rate.  I'm  learnin' 
her,  so  't  she'll  be  up  t'  snuff  in  no  time." 

"Up-t-snuff,"  repeated  M.  Desage.  "What 
ees  zat  word  mos'  interessant?  " 

Miss  Malvina,  two  pins  firmly  clenched  between 
her  teeth,  paused  to  survey  a  twisting  seam. 

"  Up  t'  snuff  means  what  you  ain't/'  she  said 
cruelly.  .  .  .  But  there!  I  guess  that  wa'n't  s' 
very  nice  o'  me — seein'  you  ain't  in  no  ways  t' 
blame  f'r  bein'  French.  .  .  .  Ef  th'  truth  was 
knowed,  mebbe  that's  jest  what  ails  Mis'  Hobbs : 
a-tryin'  t'  be  fur'n  when  she  ain't.  Ef  I  couldn't 
do  no  better  'n  that  on  a  dress-waist,  I'd  eat  my 
best  bunnit!  " 

"  It  ees  idiome! — n'est-ce-pas? — *  Eat  my  bes' 


136  NEIGHBORS 

bunnit?'     All  idiomef — I  sink.     Ah,  vary  great 
of  interes' — oui!  " 

He  wrote  briskly  in  a  leather-covered  memo- 
randum book,  while  Miss  Malvina  bent  her  mind 
upon  the  intricate  problem  of  the  misshapen 
seam. 

"  Malviny,"  said  Ma  Bennett,  who  had  sud- 
denly come  to  life  in  the  act  of  rescuing  her  ball 
of  yarn  from  the  cat,  "  I  see  Mad'lane  out  there 
talkin'  t'  a  young  man  over  th'  fence.  .  .  . 
Looks  t'  me  like  Harry  Schwartz." 

"Yes;  'tis,"  confirmed  Miss  Malvina  placidly. 
"  Well,  Harry's  a  reel  nice  young  feller,  an'  his 
folks  has  got  money;  I'd  like  t'  see  Mad'lane  with 
a  likely  beau.  She's  a  good  girl  V  pretty  's  a 
pink." 

M.  Desaye  darted  an  inquiring  look  toward  his 
own  menage.  Then  he  arose,  restored  the  memo- 
randum book  to  his  pocket  without  apparent  haste 
and  approached  Ma  Bennett,  as  was  his  invari- 
able procedure  on  arrival  and  departure. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  heels  together,  hand  over 
his  heart,  "  mes  compliments!  I  am  excessive- 
ment  oblige  for  your  hospitalite." 

"  Land  sakes !  don't  mention  it ! "  protested 
Ma. 

No  one,  as  far  as  she  could  remember,  had  ever 
paid  her  the  slightest  deference.  It  gave  her  an 


NEIGHBORS  137 

added  sense  of  self-importance  which  she  found 
singularly  agreeable. 

"  Permettez  moi,"  continued  the  Frenchman, 
still  more  politely,  as  he  restored  the  disputed  ball 
of  yarn  to  its  lawful  owner. 

Miss  Malvina  dropped  her  work  in  her  lap  and 
with  a  subdued  sparkle  under  her  lids  awaited  her 
own  particular  leave-taking.  It  was  customarily 
not  less  ceremonial  than  that  accorded  to  Ma,  but 
with  a  barely  perceptible  shade  of  difference — an 
added  savor  of  esteem,  apparent  to  Miss  Malvina 
alone.  Today,  to  her  surprise,  M.  Desaye  re- 
treated nimbly  toward  the  door: 

"  Mees  Malvina,  adieu! — my  t'anks,  my  com- 
pliment !  "  was  all  he  said,  as  he  backed  out  of 
the  door,  in  perfect  form. 

'  Well,  did  you  ever !  "  sniffed  the  little  dress- 
maker, visibly  dismayed. 

"  Seems  like  he's  in  a  hurry,"  observed  Ma 
sagaciously.  "  Mebbe  he's  got  his  eye  on  Mad'- 
lane's  beau;  an'  then  ag'in,  mebbe's  he's  mad  at 
somethin'  er  other.  I  wouldn't  git  too  f'miliar 
with  a  fur'ner,  ef  I  was  you,  Malviny.  They 
ain't  t'  be  trusted." 

But  Miss  Malvina's  sewing-machine  opposed 
a  noisy  whir  of  defiance  to  Ma's  unfounded 
opinions. 


XIII 

MADELEINE  DESAYE,  in  her  pink  cot- 
ton gown  the  color  of  a  rose — a  rare 
tint  which  appeared  to  be  reflected 
more  richly  in  her  glowing  face — was  still  talking 
— or  was  it  merely  listening? — to  the  tall  young 
man  on  the  further  side  of  the  fence,  when  M. 
Desaye,  with  no  undue  appearance  of  haste,  joined 
his  daughter.  One  might  have  supposed  he  had 
at  that  moment  first  perceived  the  stalwart  person 
of  the  intruder,  so  genuine  and  unaffected  was  his 
surprise. 

"  Monsieur,"  he  murmured  gently,  **  possess  ze 
avantage — is  it  not?  I  have  not  ze  plaisir — 
nonf" 

The  girl  turned  quickly,  and  in  the  act  a  wave 
of  crimson  submerged  the  warm  rose  of  her 
cheek. 

"  Oh!  "  she  breathed,  quite — and  yet  not  quite 
as  an  American  girl  would  have  spoken  the  small 
word  signifying  surprise  and  pleasure — or  was  it 
merely  dismay? 

The  young  man's  head  was  bare  and  the  wind 
138 


NEIGHBORS  139 

blew  his  curly  brown  hair  about  his  blue  eyes, 
which  were  frankly  occupied  with  the  girl  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else.  But  at  the  tactful  interrup- 
tion— meant  without  doubt  to  hold  a  shade  of  re- 
proof— he  glanced  up. 

"  Your  father?  "  he  asked  cheerfully.  "  Glad 
to  know  you,  sir.  I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting 
Miss  Desaye  some  weeks  ago.  .  .  .  Perhaps  she 
told  you  of  the  spill." 

"  Of  ze — s-s-pill?  "  echoed  the  older  man,  still 
bland  but  unsmiling.  "  I  fear  I  do  not  un'erstan'. 
Ze  word  ees  not  familiar.  An'  you ?  " 

He  turned  to  his  daughter. 

"  You  have  not  introduce,  my  Madeleine. 
Were,  par  example,  ees  your  civilite?  " 

His  playful  manner  took  all  sting  from  his 
words — or  so  young  Harry  Schwartz  was  think- 
ing. He  was  therefore  quite  unprepared  for  what 
followed : 

"  Permit  me  to  present — to — to  my  fat'er — 
M'sieu' — M'sieu'  Henri  Le  Noir"  she  said 
breathlessly,  and  flashed  a  pleading  glance  at  the 
partner  of  her  late  adventure. 

"A-a-ah!" 

M.  Desaye's  voice  held  quick  relief,  undisguised 
satisfaction,  mingled  with  cautious  reserve — but 
the  sort  of  reserve  which  is  ready  to  melt  into 
complete  cordiality. 


1 40  NEIGHBORS 

"A  compatriote — eh?  .  .  .  Monsieur,  I  grasp 
your  hand  with  great  pleasure !  " 

Harry  Schwartz  understood  and  took  instant 
advantage  of  the  proffered  hand;  the  rapidly 
spoken  French  phrase  troubled  him.  He  shook 
his  head  regretfully.  "  I  didn't  learn  much  French 
in  school,"  he  acknowledged. 

"  Voila!  You  aire  Americaine  born,  I  per- 
ceive." 

M.  Desaye's  tone  expressed  keen  regret: 

"  But,  my  frien',  you  s'ould  learn  ze  language 
her  edit  aire.  Eet  ees  great  pitie,  such  ignorant. 
Forgive,  eef  I  spik  wizout  disguise  of  sentiment." 

The  young  man  drew  his  frank  brows  together 
in  a  puzzled  frown.  He  was  trying,  with  small 
success,  to  comprehend  not  merely  M.  Desaye's 
halting  English,  but  the  singular  sea-change  which 
had  come  over  his  own  honest  name.  Why  had 
Madeleine  (he  already  thought  of  her  as  Made- 
leine) called  him  Le  Noir?  In  the  meantime  it 
appeared  necessary  to  say  the  right  thing — if 
one  could  by  any  means  be  sure  of  it — to  this  in- 
sistent person  in  the  frogged  velvet  coat. 

"  I'm  awfully  sorry  I'm  such  an  ignoramus," 
he  blurted  out.  "  But  I  guess  I  could  make  a 
stab  at  French  if  I  put  my  mind  to  it.  I  wish  I — — 
Couldn't  you  teach  me,  sir!  I'd  study  like  a 
nailer.  I  vow  I  would !  " 


NEIGHBORS  141 

It  was  a  credit  to  M.  Desaye's  quick  wits,  as 
well  as  to  his  recent  studies  in  the  singular  English 
idioms,  that  he  grasped  the  import  of  this  speech. 
His  grave  face  brightened. 

"  I  am  not  professor  of  French  language  an' 
literature,"  he  stated  with  dignity.  "  Still  to 
oblige  a  compatriote — who  will,  sans  doute,  ac- 
quire his  own  language  with  ease — I  s'all  have 
ze  mos'  great  plaisir.  You  will  begin — imme- 
diatement,  n'est-ce-pas?  I  will  cause  you  to  for- 
get ze  fac'  lamentable  zat  you  aire  born  Ameri- 
caine." 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  murmured  the  astonished  re- 
cipient of  this  magnificent  offer.  "  You  are  a 
lot  too  good,  sir;  but  I'm  afraid  I " 

He  stole  a  look  at  the  girl.  She  was  appar- 
ently intent  upon  the  spray  of  lilac  bloom  she 
was  slowly  denuding  of  its  florets.  Upon  the 
melting  rose  of  her  cheek  the  dark  lashes  cast  a 
distracting  shadow;  about  the  corners  of  her 
mouth  an  elusive  dimple  came  and  went. 

"  If  you  think  I  could  learn,  sir.  I  was  never 
any  good  at  Latin " 

"  Certainement!  "  cried  M.  Desaye,  with  some 
impatience.  "  Not  for  nossing  have  you  ze  sang- 
froid to  spik  to  my  daughter.  Allans!  I  now 
present  to  you  book.  You  s'all  also  learn  many 
sings  mos'  necessaire  for  polite." 


142  NEIGHBORS 

He  held  the  gate  wide  and  Harry  Schwartz 
entered,  his  brow  still  corrugated  with  unaccus- 
tomed thought.  Madeleine  raised  her  eyes  for 
an  instant.  But  she  did  not  smile.  He  even 
thought  he  detected  a  shade  of  displeasure  in  the 
look  she  bent  upon  him,  as  he  lingered  behind 
the  impetuous  Frenchman,  who  had  dashed  into 
the  house  in  quest  of  the  initial  medium  of  in- 
struction. 

"What's  the  matter  with  my  name?"  he  in- 
quired. "  Did  you  forget  it?  " 

She  surveyed  him  disdainfully  from  under  her 
lashes. 

"  Stupidef"  she  murmured.  "  Not  for  you  do 
I  your  so  ogly  name  transfer  to  more  beautiful 
Francais.  But  for  my  fat'er,  who  ha-ate — de- 
tes'  such  German  word.  You  un'erstan' — oui? 
Nevaire  do  I  again  spik  to  you,  if  you " 

"  You  bet  I  won't ! "  he  promised  eagerly. 

"  I'm  not  so  slow.  I  get  you  O.K.  But  say 

You  won't  mind  if  I  take  your  father  up  on  that 
proposition,  will  you?  I — I'm  keen  to  learn 
French.  Always  wanted  to;  honest  Injun,  I'll 
study  evenings,  an' " 

Madeleine  smiled  inscrutably. 

"  Also,  I  learn  to  spik  Englis',"  she  said. 
"Vary  queek  I  learn:  Mees  Malvina  teach  me 
many  sings  in  two  jerk  of  lam'-tail.  You  see!  " 


NEIGHBORS  143 

"  You  mean  the  old  maid  dressmaker  next 
door?"  he  asked  incredulously.  "Is  she  teach- 
ing you  English?  " 

Madeleine  nodded. 

"  Mon  pere,  aussi.  We  are  mos'  interes'. 
We  study  idiome — like  '  you  eat  my  bes'  bonnet.' 
.  .  .  Mon  Dieu!  me — I  fin'  your  Englis'  not 
gentil,  but  mos' — risible^ — w'at  you  call  fon-ny. 
I  bet  dollaire  I  learn  more  queek  zan  you!  my 
star-alive,  yes  I  " 

"  You  sure  are  making  some  progress,"  agreed 
the  young  man  cheerfully.  "  But  I  can  teach  you, 
too.  I'll  bet  I  can  knock  the  spots  out  of  Miss 
Malvina,  when  it  comes  to  idioms.  I  know  'em 
all." 

"  You  knock  ze  s-pots  of  Mees  Malvina?  Eet 
ees  mos'  rude — knock." 

"  Knock  the  spots  is  an  idiom;  it  means — er — I 
can  lay  all  over  Miss  Malvina,  when  it  comes  to 
teaching  you  good  plain  American.  I  can  beat 
her  hollow  ...  or  beat  her  to  a  frazzle — means 
the  same  thing.  .  .  .  She's  old-fashioned." 

11  Ol1  fashion'?" 

'Yes;  behind  the  times — not  up-to-date.    You 
want  to  hitch  your  wagon  to  a  star — that's  me !  " 

And  young  Harry  Schwartz  grinned  auda- 
ciously. 

"  We  also  have  idiome"  she  informed  him. 


144  NEIGHBORS 

"  You  s'all  see.  .  .  .  But  mon  pere  has  discover 
book  of  learning.  He  is  not  glad  for  me  talk  to 
you." 

"Why  not?  I  flattered  myself  your  father 
cottoned  to  me." 

She  swept  him  a  quaint  curtsy. 

"  Goo'-by!  I  make  myself  of  a  sudden  scurse, 

like  teeth  of  hen.  Queek  absent You  un'er- 

stan'?" 

"  By  the  living  Jingo ! "  mused  Harry 
Schwartz,  as  he  walked  away  ten  minutes  later,  a 
copy  of  Fenelon's  Telemachus  under  his  arm, — 
"  if  she  isn't  a  perfect  peach !  ...  Is  little  Ong- 
ree  in  luck?  You  can  just  bet  he  is!  " 

And  he  tossed  M.  Desaye's  treasured  Fenelon 
into  the  air  and  caught  it  again,  to  the  imminent 
peril  of  its  old-world  binding. 


XIV, 

MRS.  WESSELLS,  her  face  drawn  into 
myriad  puckers  of  protest,  stripped  the 
suds  from  her  red  fingers  and  straight- 
ened her  long,  lank  back  which  appeared  more 
or  less  permanently  bowed  by  much  stooping  over 
laundry  tubs. 

"  You  ain't  never  a-goin'  t'  take  that  there 
baby  out  t'day,  in  all  this  sun  an'  wind,  be  you?  " 
she  inquired. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  repeated  her  statement  to  that 
effect,  adding  a  request  that  Mrs.  Wessells  should 
assist  in  lowering  the  baby-carriage  down  the 
parsonage  front  steps. 

Mrs.  Wessells  gazed  searchingly  at  the  min- 
ister's wife. 

"  Say,  the's  one  thing  I'd  like  t'  know,  first  off  : 
Was  that  baby  took  up  t'  th'  attic  b'fore  you 
brought  him  downstairs?" 

"  Why,  of  course  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Pettibone, 
with  some  impatience.  "  Why  should  the  baby 
be  taken  to  the  attic?  " 

"  I  might  'a'  knowed  she  wouldn't  'a'  took  the 
trouble,"  mourned  Mrs.  Wessells,  rolling  up  her 

145 


146  NEIGHBORS 

eyes  to  the  ceiling.  "  I'd  ought  t'  'a'  tended  t' 
that  m'self  b'fore  'twas  too  late — what  with  you 
on  th'  flat  o'  your  back  an'  Mr.  Pettibone  likely 
never  knowin'  nothin',  no  more'n  th'  child.  That 
nurse  from  Boston  was  'nough  t'  make  a  body 
fergit  t'  say  their  pray'rs — let  alone  lookin'  after 
other  folk's  children.  'S  I  says  t'  Wessells,  *  That 
dratted  woman,'  I  says,  '  is  what  I  call  th'  livin' 
limit.'  I  hed  all  I  c'd  do  t'  stomick  her  sass.  An' 
I  wouldn't  'ave  neither,  ef  it  hadn't  'a'  be'n  fer 
you  a-layin'  upstairs  on  your  dyin'  bed " 

"  But  I  didn't  die,"  protested  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
"  I'm  alive  and  well,  and  so  is  Baby.  He's  gained 
half  a  pound  this  week,  Louisa." 

"  You  don't  say !  Well,  I  s'pose  'twon't  hurt 
none  t'  tell  you  now;  but  I  never  looked  t' 
see  you  'round  this  'ere  kitchen  agin.  'S  I  says 
t'  Wessells,  *  Poor  Mr.  Pettibone's  a-goin'  t'  git 
b'reaved  a  secon'  time,'  I  says.  *  But  where 
there's  a  secon'  th'll  gen'ally  be  a  third,'  I  says. 
They  kind  o'  git  th'  habit — not  that  it's  a  bad 
one,  what  with  widows  an'  ol'  maids  a-plenty.  I 
guess  you  know  how  that  is  yourself,  'm." 

"  What  about  taking  the  baby  to  the 
attic? "  tactfully  interrupted  the  second  Mrs. 
Pettibone. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  you  ain't  lived  all  these  years 
without  knowin'  that  sign.  .  .  .  You  haven't 


NEIGHBORS  147 

beared  it — eh?  Well,  I  want  t'  know!  Course 
it's  too  late  f'r  that  baby  o'  yourn  now;  but  in  case 
th'  was  ever  another — you  got  t'  take  'em  up- 
stairs b'fore  you  take  'em  down,  'r  else  they'll 
come  down  in  th'  world,  'stead  o'  risin'.  I  rec'lect 
we  didn't  have  no  attic  t'  th'  house  where  most  o' 
my  childern  was  born;  but  I  says  t'  Wessells, 
'  You  c'n  take  'em  up  t'  th'  roof,'  I  says.  .  .  . 
Yes,  ma'am!  Ketch  me  a-n'glectin'  my  childern! 
.  .  .  Wessells  kind  hated  t'  try  it,  but  I  says  t1 
'im,  *  You  git  th'  ladder,'  I  says,  *  an'  set  it  right 
b'  my  winder,'  I  says.  '  'N'  I'll  han'  Georgie  out 
's  you  go  a-past.  I  horned  this  'ere  baby,'  I  says, 
'  'n'  it's  your  part  t'  see  to  it  he  gits  ahead  in 
th' world.'  .  .  .  *  Suppose  I  sh'd  drop  'im?  '  says 
Wessells.  '  Don't  you  das,'  I  says.  '  I'm  boun' 
an'  de-termined  t'  have  our  Georgie  go  up  in  th' 
world,'  I  says.  .  .  .  'N'  jest  on  account  o'  that, 
th'  ain't  a  smarter  boy  in  this  'ere  town  'n  my 
Georgie.  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  be  s'prised  t'  see  him 
Pres'dent  some  o'  these  days.  I  bet  th'  time  was 
when  The'dore  Roos'velt  an'  Woodrow  Wilson 
was  jest  th'  same  age  's  my  Georgie,  'n'  wore 
their  knee-pants  an'  like  that,  an'  hed  t'  learn  th' 
differ'nce  b'tween  eight  times  seven  and  six  times 
nine — ef  th'  is  one.  Georgie  says  th'  is.  My! 
he's  th'  knowin'est  boy!  " 

"  Now  if  you'll  help  me  lift  the  baby-carriage 


i48  NEIGHBORS 

down  the  steps,"  interrupted  little  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone. 

"  Did  that  critter  from  Boston  tell  you  a  stray 
dog  come  along  an'  dug  a  hole  right  in  under 
your  bedroom  winder  th'  very  nex'  day  after  he 
was  born?  "  demanded  Mrs.  Wessells. 

But  Mrs.  Pettibone  pretended  not  to  hear,  being 
already  embarked  upon  her  first  proud  maternal 
pilgrimage,  pushing  the  perambulator,  which 
seemed  to  have  grown  surprisingly  heavy  during 
its  long  sojourn  in  the  attic. 

"  Yes'm,  'twas  a  yeller  dog  I  never  seen  b'fore; 
he  run  right  in  th'  yard  where  I  was  hangin'  out 
m'  dish-towels  an'  I  drove  'im  off,"  came  Mrs. 
Wessell's  pursuing  voice.  "  But  he  come  right 
back,  an'  th'  nex'  thing  I  knowed — when  I 
stepped  out  to  throw  some  p'tato  peels  in  th' 
swill-pail — there  he  was  's  large  's  life  settin'  b' 
th'  edge  of  a  grave  he'd  dug  'n'  howlin'  t'  beat 
the  cars!  I  never  knowed  it  t'  fail,  Mis'  Petti- 
bone — inside  of  a  year,  anyhow!  So  if  anythin' 
happens  t'  th'  baby,  r'member  you  got  your 
warnin' !  " 

The  last  words  borne  on  the  warm  May  wind 
reached  Mrs.  Pettibone's  ears  like  a  hateful  echo 
of  her  own  thoughts.  She  stooped  to  tuck  the 
blankets  more  snugly  about  the  sleeping  child. 

"I'm  not  afraid,"  she  said  to  herself;  "I'm 


NEIGHBORS  149 

not  going  to  think  about  losing  him.  Just  because 
I  love  him  so  doesn't  mean  that  God  will  take 
him  away.  God  isn't  like  that !  " 

At  family  prayers  that  morning — a  function 
which  had  been  resumed  as  soon  as  she  was  able 
to  come  downstairs — she  had  listened  to  her  hus- 
band's voice  reading  the  decalogue.  Of  course 
she  had  known  the  commandments  ever  since  she 
could  remember;  but  one  phrase  had  sounded  in- 
sistently in  her  ears  while  she  bathed  and  dressed 
the  baby:  "  For  I  the  Lord,  thy  God,  am  a  jealous 
God!  "  Suppose  it  should  be  true? 

After  the  baby  had  lapsed  into  rosy  slumber 
she  tucked  him  into  his  carriage  and  pattered 
softly  away  to  her  Mecca:  before  the  door  of 
Mr.  Pettibone's  study  she  paused  uncertainly. 
He  would  be  busy  writing  his  Sunday  ser- 
mon, she  knew,  and  there  was  to  be  a  funeral 
at  eleven. 

He  looked  up  abstractedly  as  she  timidly  opened 
the  door. 

"Ah,  my  dear!    What  is  it?" 

"  I  wanted  to — to  ask  you  something,"  she 
faltered.  "  It  will  take  only  a  minute." 

"  And  you  couldn't  wait  for  that  minute  ? 
Then  it  must  be  something  important,"  he  in- 
ferred. 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her  kindly. 


150  NEIGHBORS 

"  It  is  important — to  me;  and,  yes,  to  you — and 
the  baby." 

"Well?" 

He  surveyed  her  thoughtfully.  This  small 
woman,  who  had  once  seemed  a  wholly  negligible 
personality  to  most  people  in  Innisfield,  including 
himself,  had  latterly  grown  to  be  of  paramount 
interest  to  many  persons,  and  more — nay,  most 
particularly — to  himself.  She  had  become  his  sec- 
ond wife;  she  was  rapidly  becoming  his  second 
self.  He  recognized  that  self  in  the  question 
she  tremulously  put  to  him : 

"Why  is  God  jealous?" 

He  tapped  his  paper  thoughtfully  with  his 
pencil — Mr.  Pettibone  preferred  a  pencil  with  an 
eraser  for  composition.  The  eraser  gave  one  a 
pleasant  sense  of  freedom;  it  appeared  to  make 
written  thoughts  more  easily  malleable,  like  clay 
in  the  hands  of  the  sculptor.  Thought,  ad- 
vanced to  the  dignity  of  ink;  then  to  type  (which 
may  yet  be  changed)  then  to  the  inviolable  plate, 
approaches  the  fixed  state  of  marble — when  what 
is  made  is  made,  be  it  good  or  ill. 

"  You  are  thinking,"  he  said,  "  of  the  decalogue 
I  read  this  morning." 

"  Yes,"  she  breathed.  "  And  afterward  I  was 
— afraid.  I  am  too  happy,  perhaps.  And  if 
God " 


NEIGHBORS  151 

"  My  dear  Philura,"  he  said  gravely,  "  it  is  a 
seemingly  unfortunate  characteristic  of  the  human 
mind  that  our  highest  convictions,  our  most  il- 
lumined aspirations  seldom  remain  in  a  fixed  state. 
We  attain  the  heights,  only  to  slip  back  again 
into  the  depths  whence  we  have  so  hopefully 
emerged  but  a  little  while  before.  Go  back  in 
your  experience,  my  dear,  and  recall  the  days 
when  you  found  that  God  was  kind  and  even  lav- 
ishly generous — in  the  matter  of  gowns  and — er 
— husbands." 

There  was  a  glint  of  humor  in  the  eyes  he 
lifted  to  hers,  but  with  it  appeared  a  shadow  of 
real  anxiety. 

"  Don't  fail  me,  my  dear,"  he  went  on,  still 
more  seriously;  "I  shall  continue  to  have  need 
of  your  optimism  and  your  strong  faith.  As  to 
the  word  'jealous';  it  is  perhaps  unfortunately 
translated.  There  is  no  hint  there  of  the  cruel 
suspicion  we  mortals  call  jealousy.  Say  rather 
4  vigilant '  or  *  watchful.'  '  I,  the  Lord  thy  God, 
am  a  vigilant  God.'  .  .  .  You  are  quite  right  in 
being  happy — if  you  are  happy." 

His  eyes  questioned  her  keenly. 

"  Oh,  I  am — I  am !  "  she  cried,  clasping  her 
hands  passionately. 

"  And  yet  your  lot  in  life  is  not  an  easy  one," 
he  sighed. 


152  NEIGHBORS 

"If  one  could  only  be  rid — once  and  for  all — 
of  being  afraid,"  she  said,  after  a  longish 
pause. 

"  I  believe  we  shall,  some  time  or  other,"  he 
murmured  abstractedly.  "  Fear  has  come  up  with 
us  from  the  jungle  of  creation;  it  pads — pads 
after  us,  like  a  velvet-footed  beast  in  the  dark. 
But  the  beasts  will  all  be  put  under  our  feet — 
once  we  emerge  into  the  glorious  liberty  of  the 
sons  of  God." 

His  pencil  once  more  began  to  move  rapidly 
over  the  paper.  He  had  forgotten  her  presence ; 
perceiving  which  she  slipped  away  to  the  kitchen, 
where  Mrs.  Wessells,  after  a  third  heartening  cup 
of  tea,  had  resumed  a  belated  washing. 

"  I  don't  see  how  people  can  live  who  are  al- 
ways thinking  and  talking  of  bad  signs''  said 
Mrs.  Pettibone  to  herself,  as  she  once  more  put 
the  perambulator  in  motion. 

She  blushed,  as  she  recalled  her  own  unreason- 
ing anxiety  to  glimpse  the  new  moon  over  her 
right  shoulder. 

"Yes;  and  I  prefer  to  pick  up  a  pin  with  its 
head  towards  me,  and  I  cried  once,  when  I  broke 
a  looking-glass — and  mother  did  die  that  same 
year;  but  of  course  it  wasn't  the  looking-glass. 
And  now — just  because  a  yellow  dog — I  am 
ashamed — ashamed  to  be  so  silly.  Our  God  is 


NEIGHBORS  153 

vigilant — a  vigilant  God.  I  must  remember  that ! 
In  Him  I  live  and  move  and  have  my  being.  I 
mustn't  forget,  even  for  a  minute." 

She  stopped  first  at  the  butcher's  for  a  modest 
purchase,  receiving  with  smiles  and  blushes  the 
heartfelt  congratulations  of  that  worthy  purveyor 
of  flesh  foods. 

"  It  cert'nly  does  seem  good  t'  see  you  out  with 
that  little  market-wagon  o'  yourn  once  more,"  said 
Mr.  Kelly,  as  he  cut  and  trimmed  the  three  lamb- 
chops  she  had  ordered,  with  scrupulous  care.  His 
rotund  person  and  broad  red  face  appeared  to 
radiate  hearty  good  will  as  he  handed  the  small 
neat  parcel  to  Mrs.  Pettibone,  who  tucked  it  care- 
fully under  the  blankets. 

"  I  s'pose  I  c'n  take  a  peek — eh?  .  .  .  My! 
My !  What  a  fine  fat  baby !  Coin'  t'  look  exac'ly 
like  th'  dominie;  ain't  it?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  fervently  hoped  so. 

"Whatever  become  of  th'  other  little  chap?" 
pursued  Mr.  Kelly.  ..."  Say,  that  was  tough — 
his  folks  takin'  him  away,  after  you  an'  th' 
dominie  'd  put  yourselves  out  the  way  you  done  t' 
raise  him." 

"  Stephen  is  well,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  her 
bright  face  clouding  a  little.  "  I  had  a  letter 
from  Mrs.  Maitland  only  the  other  day.  They 
are  living  in  Chicago,  you  know." 


i54  NEIGHBORS 

She  patted  the  blue-and-white  coverlid  which 
had  once  brooded  another  treasure. 

"  We  felt  it  was  right  his  parents  should  have 

him,"  she  said.     "  But  I — we It  was  like 

losing  a  child — when  they  took  him." 

"  I'll  bet  it  was !  "  agreed  Mr.  Kelly  warmly. 
"  He  was  a  fine  little  chap  an'  no  mistake.  .  .  . 
Well,  I  guess  now  you  got  one  o'  your  own  you'll 
never  miss  him." 

Philura  Pettibone  allowed  the  statement  to  pass 
unchallenged.  It  was  merely  an  echo  of  a  wide- 
spread parochial  opinion.  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  in- 
deed, had  congratulated  her  upon  the  loss  of  her 
adopted  child:  "  A  smilin'  providence,"  she  called 
it,  adding:  "  You'd  ought  t'  be  glad  an'  thankful 
that  child's  pro-vided  for,  Philura."  .  .  .  But 
Mrs.  Pettibone  could  not  help  picturing  to  her- 
self the  beautiful  little  figure  of  Stephen — as  he 
looked  in  the  photograph  his  mother  had  sent 
her.  He  would  be  large  enough  by  now  to  trot 
along  beside  the  perambulator.  But  the  Lord 
our  God  was  a  vigilant  God,  and  He  had  seen  to 
it  that  Stephen  was  restored  to  his  young 
mother. 


XV 

A"  this  point  in  her  somewhat  pensive  medi- 
tations Mrs.  Pettibone  found  herself  in 
front  of  Trimmer's  store,  which  put  her 
in  mind  of  the  pale  blue  slippers  also  tucked 
under  the  blankets.  They  had  not,  after  all, 
proved  to  be  the  right  size.  Several  baby  car- 
riages, exuding  woolly  blankets,  stood  in  front  of 
the  Emporium.  The  mothers  presumably  were 
shopping  inside.  It  was  a  lax  maternal  practice 
strongly  disapproved  by  Mrs.  Pettibone.  What 
if  a  baby  should  wake  up  and  cry?  What  if  he 
should  fall  out  of  his  carriage?  What  if — half 
a  hundred  things,  including  runaway  horses,  kid- 
nappers, and  mad  dogs.  Still,  there  was  Mrs. 
Puffer's  shabby  perambulator  with  the  latest  pink- 
and-white  Puffer  fast  asleep  and  wholly  un- 
guarded. Mrs.  Pettibone  wondered  if  she  might 
add  her  treasure  to  the  group — if  only  for  the 
moment  required  to  exchange  size  three  for  size 
four  in  a  pale  blue  felt  slipper  adorned  with 
pompons.  .  .  . 

Mr.    Pettibone   had   told   his   wife   with   con- 
siderable detail  of  the  gloomy  young  English- 
es 


1 56  NEIGHBORS 

man,  lured  to  America  and  despised  immunity  by 
the  unprincipled  arts  of  his  mother.  It  appeared 
that  Mr.  Pettibone  strongly  disapproved  of  Mrs. 
Hobbs'  methods  of  securing  safety  for  her  son. 
"  A  man,"  he  stated  forensically,  "  should  be 
permitted  to  decide  such  questions  for  himself 
without  female  interference." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  differed  widely  from  her  hus- 
band's conclusions.  She  hugged  her  baby  to  her 
breast  with  that  air  of  complete  ownership  the 
minister  had  frequently  observed  in  the  matrons 
of  his  flock. 

"  I  would  never,  never  let  them  take  my  baby 
away  from  me  to  shoot  at,"  she  said  passionately. 
"  And  I  wouldn't  let  them  have  you,  either !  " 

"  Let  us  suppose,"  suggested  Mr.  Pettibone, 
"  merely  for  the  sake  of  argument,  my  dear,  that 
every  woman  should  take  that  stand.  What  then 
would  become  of  our  vaunted  patriotism?" 

Mrs.  Pettibone  didn't  know,  she  was  sure. 
She  considered  the  question  in  mutinous  silence, 
while  her  husband  went  to  some  pains  to  explain 
how  this  supreme  test  of  the  universal  applica- 
tion put  everything  in  its  true  light  and  solved  the 
most  puzzling  questions. 

"  Women,"  he  concluded  somewhat  grand- 
iosely, "  are  always  too  prone  to  take  the  lim- 
ited, personal  view,  whereas  men " 


NEIGHBORS  157 

"  Well,  anyway,"  interrupted  his  wife,  tucking 
up  the  baby's  feet  a  little  more  snugly,  "  if  all  the 
women  did  it,  there  couldn't  be  any  war." 

"  If  the  women — er " 

"  If  all  the  women  took  all  their  boys — and 
their  husbands  away — like  that  Mrs.  Hobbs — all 
the  English  and  Germans  and  French,  you  know; 
then  the  Kings  and  Kaisers  and  Czars  and  Em- 
perors would  be  obliged  to  go  into  the  trenches 
themselves  and " 

"  My  dear  Philura,"  protested  the  minis- 
ter warmly.  "  You  are  talking  the  merest 
nonsense!  " 

"  I'm  only  making  it  universal,"  she  persisted 
demurely.  "  If  there  weren't  any  men  to  shoot 
and  be  shot  at,  then  the  Kaisers  and " 

He  arose  abruptly,  glancing  at  his  watch. 
'  We  are  wasting  time,"  he  stated,  with  some 
asperity. 

She  heard  the  study  door  close  firmly  behind 
him. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  said  to  herself;  "  I'd  like 
to  see  them  shooting  at  each  other." 

Then  she  laid  a  pink  blanket  over  the  white 
one  and  deposited  the  woolly  chrysalis  thus  formed 
under  a  blue  slumber  robe  in  the  crib,  cooing  in 
an  absurd  little  monotone: 

"  Nas'y  ol'  Kings  'n'  Kaisers  'n'  sings !    Muzzer 


158  NEIGHBORS 

would  just  love  t'  see  'em  right  down  in  a  deep, 
deep  muddy  trench,  so  she  would.  They  never 
s'all  get  muzzer's  lamb !  .  .  . " 

A  vague  reminiscence  of  the  foregoing  discus- 
sion recurred  to  her  now  as  she  made  her  way  to- 
ward the  shoe  department,  where  a  tall  young 
man,  with  a  dark  wave  of  hair  drooping  over  his 
forehead,  was  counting  change  into  the  hand  of 
a  small  girl,  in  a  red  tarn.  He  had  white,  even 
teeth — she  observed  this  when  he  smiled  at  the 
little  girl — square  military  shoulders,  and  clear 
gray  eyes  under  strongly  marked  brows.  This 
could  be  no  other  than  Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener 
Hobbs. 

"  He's  very  good-looking,"  she  decided.  "  If 
I  had  been  Mrs.  Hobbs  I'm  sure  I  should  have 
done  exactly " 

Then  she  launched  into  a  somewhat  breathless 
explanation  of  her  errand,  as  the  salvaged  Briton 
turned  to  give  her  his  undivided  attention.  Per- 
haps Mr.  Hobbs  would  remember  a  gentleman— 
a  tall  gentleman  with  gray  hair;  Mr.  Pettibone, 
in  short,  purchasing  a  pair  of  pale  blue  slip- 
pers  

Mr.  Hobbs  recalled  the  circumstances  per- 
fectly. The  gentleman  had  been  obliged  to  guess 
at  the  size.  .  .  .  Yes,  he  had  rather  expected  the 
return  of  those  slippers.  And  would  Mrs.  Petti- 


NEIGHBORS  159 

bone — if,  peradventure,  he  was  speaking  to  Mrs. 
Pettibone ? 

Mindful  of  her  proud  estate  as  the  wife  of  a 
clergyman,  Mrs.  Pettibone  held  out  a  timid  hand 
of  greeting.  After  a  moment  of  puzzled  inde- 
cision the  young  man  took  it. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  murmured,  an 
ingenuous  blush  enhancing  his  youthful  good 
looks. 

"  Mr.  Pettibone  told  me  all  about  you,"  beamed 
Mrs.  Pettibone  graciously.  "  And  I  mean  to  go 
and  see  your  mother,  just  as  soon  as  I  can  leave 
the  baby.  .  .  .  And  that  reminds  me,  I  must 
hurry." 

The  young  man  turned  from  an  inspection  of 
a  row  of  boxes;  his  spine  appeared  to  have  stif- 
fened. 

"  I'm  afraid  we  haven't  that  style  of  slipper  in 
light  blue,"  he  said  coldly.  "  Wouldn't — cr — 
pink  do? — or  black?  " 

"  And  would  you  mind  bringing  them  out 
to  me?"  asked  Mrs.  Pettibone  in  an  agitated 
voice, — "  the  black  will  do.  Yes,  size  four, 
please." 

He  caught  something  further  about  "  the  car- 
riage outside,"  and  turned  to  see  the  small  lady 
in  gray  hurrying  toward  the  door.  As  he  stood, 
still  hesitating,  he  heard  a  sharp  cough  at  his 


160  NEIGHBORS 

elbow  and  looked  down  to  find  his  employer,  gaz- 
ing at  him  with  the  air  of  alert  suspicion  Mr. 
Trimmer  affected  toward  his  clerks. 

"Well,  Hobbs,"  said  Mr.  Trimmer  sharply, 
"  any  sales  this  morning?  .  .  .  What  did  Mrs. 
Pettibone  want  in  this  department — eh?  I  saw 
her  talking  to  you." 

"  She  wished  to  exchange  some  slippers,  sir," 
replied  young  Hobbs,  rather  sulkily.  "  She  asked 
me  to  bring  them  out  to  her  carriage." 

He  had  conceived  a  violent  and  wholly  unrea- 
soning dislike  for  the  pompous,  fussy  little  man, 
who  did  not  appear  in  the  least  to  realize  that  he 
was  merely  a  haberdasher.  The  exiled  English- 
man gazed  coldly  over  the  top  of  Mr.  Trimmer's 
shining  bald  head,  a  mighty  wave  of  passionate 
affection  for  his  own  country  (where  tradespeople 
realized  their  true  position)  mingled  with  futile 
anger  at  his  own  inglorious  fate  submerging  him 
so  completely  that  he  scarcely  heard  that  gentle- 
man's grumbled  comments.  He  understood 
vaguely  that  he  was  to  fetch  the  slippers  out  to 
Mrs.  Pettibone's  carriage.  .  .  . 

But  no  carriage  was  visible  when  he  arrived  at 
the  curb.  He  stood  for  a  moment  in  the  sunlight, 
his  comely  head  bare,  his  eyes  searching  the  dull 
street.  Then  all  at  once  Fate  in  the  guise  of  a 
small  and  disreputable  yellow  dog  ran  between 


NEIGHBORS  161 

his  legs,  almost  upsetting  him.  Just  how  it  came 
to  pass  the  young  Englishman  never  attempted 
to  explain — even  in  the  seclusion  of  his  own 
thoughts;  but  he  presently  found  himself  in  full 
pursuit  of  a  girl  in  a  pink  dress,  who  fled  before 
him  down  the  street — the  yellow  dog  well  to  the 
fore,  a  small  brown  paper  parcel  dangling  from 
his  jaws. 

A  woman's  dismayed  voice  had  called  "  Catch 
him !  Catch  him !  "  Then  some  one  had  laughed 
— a  fresh,  joyous  sound — and  Kitchener  Hobbs  in- 
stantly joined  the  chase,  his  spirits  expanding, 
shaking  off  the  dull  load  which  had  harassed  him. 
Neither  the  yellow  dog  nor  the  girl  in  pink — who 
managed  to  maintain  her  lead  for  some  distance 
— appeared  to  him  to  be  the  goal.  It  was  rather 
the  joy  of  swift  motion,  the  long  suppressed  sense 
of  power  which  sprang  suddenly  to  full  height, 
like  a  grinning  and  triumphant  Jack-in-the-box. 
He  could  have  run  on  and  on;  but  the  yellow  dog 
foolishly  paused  for  a  moment  to  sniff  his  booty, 
and  in  that  moment  the  girl  alertly  pounced  upon 
the  disputed  parcel. 

"  Mediant!  "  she  cried.  "  Petit  larronf  Qweek! 
begone  or  I  beat  you !  " 

The  yellow  dog,  his  diminutive  tail  between 
his  legs,  slunk  hurriedly  away,  turning  eyes  so 
expressive  of  pained  disappointment  upon  the  girl 


1 62  NEIGHBORS 

that  she  laughed  aloud — the  fresh  joyous  sound 
he  had  heard  before. 

It  seemed  the  most  natural  thing  in  the  world 
for  him  to  speak  to  her,  and  equally  inevitable 
for  her  to  smile  up  at  him  as  she  replied.  The 
quiet  street  might  have  been  a  meadow  in  Arcadia, 
so  far  removed  seemed  these  two  from  the  stupid 
conventions  of  the  world.  Even  the  yellow  dog, 
after  a  brief  period  devoted  to  sagacious  recon- 
noissance  from  behind  a  bush,  turned  and  trotted 
wistfully  after  them. 

"  My  word !  "  said  young  Hobbs  admiringly, 
"how  you  can  run!  And  you  caught  the  thief 
just  in  time.  .  .  .  Was  it  anything  valuable?  " 

"  Me — I  am  not  aware,"  she  smiled  up  at  him. 
"  Folia!  I  behold  zis  so  bad  animal  about  to 
devour  ze  petit  enfant!  mais  non;  it  was  only  zis 
— conceal  under  robe  of  bebe." 

She  held  out  for  his  inspection  the  minister's 
modest  dinner,  still  secure  in  its  brown  paper 
wrappings. 

He  was  gazing  down  at  her  with  entire  absence 
of  curiosity  as  to  the  contents  of  Mrs.  Pettibone's 
salvaged  property.  .  .  .  They  were  walking 
slowly,  very  slowly,  as  was  natural  after  their  late 
exertions  in  the  chase.  There  was  something 
vaguely  familiar — or  so  he  was  thinking — in  her 
piquant  face.  It  was  like  recovering  a  memory, 


NEIGHBORS  163 

infinitely  precious  and  only  vaguely  missed  for  an 
indefinite  period. 

"Were  you  ever  in  London?"  he  asked  sud- 
denly. 

"Me?"  she  shook  her  head.  "  Non,  m'sieu', 
nevaire.  I  am  of  France." 

"Yes;  but — I  have  surely  seen  you  before — 
somewhere." 

Recognition  slowly  dawned  in  her  eyes. 

"  In  Boston — that  so  ogly  cite — I  sink  I  see 
m'sieu' — once,  twice — on  street,  or  in  shop.  But 
always  vary  triste — melancolique,  n'est-ce-pas?  " 

He  drew  his  dark  brows  into  a  frowning  line. 

"  I  desired  to  enlist  in  the  British  army,"  he 
told  her,  in  the  somewhat  wooden  French  of  the 
average  Englishman  who  attempts  to  acquire  the 
elegant  language  of  his  neighbors  across  the 
channel. 

Her  face  became  suddenly  radiant. 

"  Ah,  you  spik  my  language !  "  she  cried.  "  And 
also  you  would  fight  for  my  country.  .  .  .  But 
w'y,  zen,  aire  you  here?  " 

"  My  mother  is  an  American,"  he  explained, 
his  face  crimsoning  under  her  questioning  eyes. 
"  I — I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't  understand " 

She  was  obviously  eager  to  make  the  attempt, 
and  he  went  on  haltingly: 

"  You  see — I  can  speak  pretty  fair  French,  and 


1 64  NEIGHBORS 

they  wanted  me  for  an  interpreter.  Most  of  our 
Tommies  can't  talk  anything  but  cockney,  and  so 
they — they—  My  word!  I  can't  seem  to  re- 
member my  tenses  when  you  look  at  me  like 
that!" 

He  had  lapsed  into  English  and  was  smiling 
at  her  boyishly. 

"  Spik  to  me  in  Englis',"  she  entreated.  "  Me, 
I  un'erstan'  to  beat  the  cars — you  see?  All  time 
I  study  your  so  be-utiful  talk.  Good  Ian' — yes !  " 

Her  pretty  air  of  triumph  halted  the  smile  on 
his  lips. 

"  I  fancy  somebody  is  teaching  you  United 
States,"  he  commented.  "  But  I'm  used  to  it 
from  hearing  mother  talk.  ...  I  told  you  my 
mother  is  an  American?  " 

She  nodded  eagerly. 

"  But  you  will  fight  for  France — eh?  " 

A  dark  wing  of  pain  shadowed  his  face. 

"  How  can  I — when  I  am  forced  to  be  here?  " 
he  said  gruffly.  "  My  mother  was  ill — she  was 
determined  to  come  home.  And  I — like  a  fool, 
I  came,  too.  Afterward,  I  found  she  was  afraid 
I'd  be  killed." 

Madeleine  absent-mindedly  stroked  the  yellow 
dog,  who  at  this  instant  obtruded  his  starved  per- 
son between  them. 

"  I  un'erstan',"  she  nodded.     "  Me,  I  am  not 


NEIGHBORS  165 

stupide — like  zis  so  mechant.  You  come  to  Amer- 
ica wiz  your  maman — me  wiz  my  papa,  enfin!  " 

Her  gravity  broke  in  delighted  laughter. 

"  Star  alive !  I  have  sink  we  are  allies  of  ze 
entente: — vous  et  moi — zis  petit  larron  ees  zat  so 
bad,  weecked  Germany — an'  ze  leettle  bebe  ees 
Belgium.  You  see,  my  frien'  ?  We  have  conquer 
— we  have  rescue.  Eet  ees — what  you  call  good 
sign — eh?  We  fight — vous  et  moi,  n'est-ce-pas?" 

Without  realizing  it  the  two  had  been  loitering 
unpardonably,  so  Mrs.  Pettibone  pushing  the  per- 
ambulator with  anxious  haste  had  covered  almost 
half  the  distance  of  their  flight  when  she  met 
them.  Even  then,  the  two  unheeding  young 
things  would  have  passed  her  by  without  a 
glance — he  was  bending  toward  her,  his  eyes  all 
lighted  with  ardor;  she  was  gazing  up  at  him; 
and  the  yellow  dog,  quite  unheeded,  was  tugging 
hungrily  at  the  dangling  string  of  the  minister's 
dinner.  What  young  Hobbs  would  have  said  in 
response  to  her  audacious  figure  of  speech  can 
only  be  surmised. 

"  Oh— thank  you!"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
"  How  very  kind  of  you  both  to  rescue  my 
parcel!  " 

She  held  out  her  hand  for  it  confidently. 

"  Won't  you  introduce  me,  Mr.  Hobbs?  I  see 
that  you  are  friends." 


1 66  NEIGHBORS 

The  two  glanced  at  each  other  in  sudden  dis- 
may. The  girl  recovered  herself  first. 

"  You  perceive  Madeleine  Desaye,"  she  curt- 
seyed; "  I  have  grand  plaisir  to  restore  again  your 
possession,  madame." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  received  the  information  and 
the  parcel  with  unaffected  gratitude,  her  small  face 
under  its  unfashionable  hat-brim  quite  pink  with 
surprise  and  pleasure. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Pettibone,"  she  said.  "  Perhaps 
you  didn't  know  it,  Miss  Desaye;  but  you  are  liv- 
ing in  my  house.  I  was  so  glad  to  rent  it.  ... 
Don't  hurry  away,  Mr.  Hobbs.  I  haven't 

thanked  you  yet;  and  the  slippers Oh,  yes; 

thank  you !  .  .  .  And  to  think  you  know  Miss 
Desaye.  How  very  pleasant!" 

"  Land  sake — yes!  "  agreed  Madeleine  calmly. 
"  In  Boston  we  aire  already  met.  Me — I  am  sur- 
prise to  beat  band  when  I  perceive  Mis-taire — 
Mis-taire  Hobb;  I  bet  his — mais  non — he  bet  your 
boot!" 

Mrs.  Pettibone's  smile  became  slowly  petrified. 
She  turned  wide  eyes  of  astonishment  upon  the 
girl,  who  was  dimpling  with  triumph  over  her 
mastery  of  the  difficult  English  tongue. 

"  Miss  Desaye,"  offered  Mr.  Hobbs  gravely, 
"  has  been  acquiring  a  special  brand  of  United 
States  from  some  kind  friend." 


NEIGHBORS  167 

"  Oh,  I  see "  murmured  the  minister's  wife. 

"  Really,  some  one  should " 

Mechanically  she  tucked  the  three  lamb-chops 
under  the  baby's  blanket,  cruelly  ignoring  a  pair 
of  bright  brown  eyes  and  a  small,  wistful  yellow 
nose. 

At  this  slight  disturbance  of  his  swathings  the 
youthful  occupant  of  the  vehicle  awoke  to  a  real- 
ization of  his  rights. 

It  was  his  lawful  time  to  cry — being  ten  min- 
utes of  his  lunch  hour — and  he  announced  the  fact, 
loudly,  even  terrifyingly — to  the  uninitiated. 

Mr.  Hobbs  glanced  at  his  watch,  with  the  air 
of  one  suddenly  recalled  to  earth  after  a  brief 
sojourn  in  a  super-world. 

"  Er — I  fear  I  may  be  needed  in  the  shop," 
he  bethought  himself  regretfully.  "  I  have  the 
honor  to  bid  you  good-morning,  ladies." 

And  he  marched  away,  very  erect  and  soldierly, 
aware  of  Madeleine's  bright  gaze,  which  ap- 
peared to  be  boring  a  hole  right  through  to  his 
heart — like  a  well-aimed  bullet. 

"  How  very  odd  for  you  to  have  met  Mr. 
Hobbs  before !  "  observed  Mrs.  Pettibone,  striv- 
ing to  ignore  the  shrill  protests  of  her  child.  .  .  . 
"  No;  he  is  not  ill,  my  dear,  only  hungry.  I  will 
take  him  home  directly.  .  .  .  He  seems  a  very 
nice  young  man." 


1 68  NEIGHBORS 

Her  glance  directed  the  comment  from  the  dis- 
pleased infant  to  the  rapidly  receding  figure  of 
Mr.  Hobbs.  "  Have  you  known  him  long?  " 

Madeleine  reflected,  her  pretty  head  on  one 
side. 

"  I  zink  I  repeat  to  you  one  beeg — what  you 
call  wh-opper,  when  I  say  I  know  zat  nize  young 
man,"  she  said.  "  He  ees — etranger  to  me;  I  see 
him  only  vary  much  sad  in  Bos-ton.  I  say  to  me, 
'  He  is  one  charmant  person;  zat  man.  I  lofe  him 
for  his  beaux  yeux.'  But  to  my  papa  I  say  nos- 
sing.  He  not  like  for  me  to  lofe." 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed,"  agreed  Mrs.  Pet- 
tibone  warmly.  "  You  are  much  too  young,  for 
one  thing." 

The  girl's  clear  gaze  was  fastened  on  her  face. 

"  You  aire  vary  nize  lady,"  she  said  politely. 
"  Mais  '  mush-too-y'u-ng-f'-one-sing  ' — I  not  un- 
'erstan'.  Eet  ees  idiome — n'est-ce-pas?  like 
pretty-kettle-o'-feesh?  Vary  much  of  interes'  to 
me — zose  idiome." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  pushing  the  baby-carriage 
with  all  her  feeble  strength,  her  breath  coming 
in  short,  quick  gasps. 

"  I  will — explain — later,"  she  said.  "  Some  one 
should- 

"  Permit  me — I  entreat — to  propel  bebe"  has- 
tily interposed  the  girl.  "  You  aire,  I  sink,  wore 


NEIGHBORS  -     169 

t'  a  fr-azzle — eh?  Me,  I  am  robuste;  an'  zose 
so  leetle  enfants — I  adore  zem." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  sighed  her  relief  as  the  girl 
gently  pushed  her  to  one  side.  The  baby  re- 
doubled his  efforts,  his  pink  fists  beating  the  air. 

"  My  star  alive !  how  he  holler — ze  petit 
pauvref  Folia!  I  cause  heem  to  desist — vary 
qweek,  you  see." 

She  peeped  under  the  cover  with  pretty  gravity, 
cooing  little  French  phrases  of  endearment.  The 
baby  was  her  petit  cochon  de  lait,  her  joujou,  her 
joli  pigeonneau,  her  miette  de  sucre  rosat.  But 
the  youthful  scion  of  the  house  of  Pettibone  would 
have  none  of  it;  he  was  blind  and  deaf — but  not 
dumb — to  all  but  a  single  idea. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  strove  to  be  grateful. 

'  You  seem  accustomed  to  children,"  she  said 
weakly. 

"Me — accustom?  Mon  dieu — yes!  Vary 
much  I  take  care  of  bebe.  In  my  own  countrie  I 
play  wiz  so  leetle  enfants  all  times,  like — like 
poupees — you  un'erstan' ?  Bien!  I  carry  heem  in 
arms  for  quiet — comme  celle-la!  " 

No  one  of  the  four  (to  include  the  yellow  dog, 
who  still  trotted  hopefully  in  the  rear)  so  much 
as  glanced  at  Trimmer's  Emporium,  which  they 
chanced  to  be  passing  at  the  moment.  The  very 
existence  of  Kitchener  Hobbs  was  forgotten — or 


170  NEIGHBORS 

at  least  totally  eclipsed  by  the  gross  selfishness  of 
a  male  being  much  younger  than  himself.  From 
his  unenviable  position  behind  the  shoe  boxes  Mr. 
Hobbs  witnessed  the  abrupt  pause  of  the  little 
cavalcade;  beheld  Madeleine  confidently  lift  the 
baby,  with  all  his  blankets,  and  cradle  him  in  her 
arms;  noted  Mrs.  Pettibone's  anxious  flutterings 
and  preenings;  saw  them  pass  out  of  range  of  his 
straining  vision.  Then  his  somber  face  relaxed 
in  a  boyish  grin:  the  yellow  dog  had  at  last  reaped 
the  fruit  of  intelligent  concentration  in  the  shape 
of  a  neatly  trimmed  lamb-chop,  with  which  he 
was  rapidly  skurrying  to  cover  in  a  neighboring 
alley. 

"  By  Jove!  "  commented  Mr.  Hobbs,  under  his 
breath;  "the  little  chap  got  away  with  it,  after 
all!" 

For  a  long,  happy  minute  he  forgot  that  his 
name  was  Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener.  He  was 
even  conscious  of  a  sneaking  gladness  that  he  was 
in  America,  to  the  temporary  neglect  of  that  su- 
preme pinnacle  of  human  ambition:  a  muddy 
trench  "  somewhere  in  France." 


XVI 

FORTUNE  was  kind  to  Miss  Malvina  Ben- 
nett all  during  the  spring  and  well  on  into 
the  early  summer — or  if  not  Fortuna, 
that  sly  goddess  of  a  pagan  antiquity  who  rudely 
elbows  our  Christian  Providence  at  every  turn, 
then  that  superior  overruling  intelligence  easily 
recognizable  in  every  age.  Mrs.  Hobbs  was  sin- 
cerely grateful  for  the  timely  help  which  had 
saved  her  from  complete  humiliation;  the 
"  robes  "  which  came  from  her  establishment  with 
praiseworthy  promptness  were  not  only  startling 
in  their  fidelity  to  Paris  modes,  as  depicted  in 
American  fashion-plates,  but  they  wore  well.  So 
Madame  Louise  plus  Miss  Malvina  Bennett  pros- 
pered exceedingly. 

"  I  expect  I'm  a  reg'lar  fool,"  said  Miss  Mal- 
vina, "  a-playin'  int'  your  hand  the  way  I  be;  but 
live  V  let  live  is  my  endurin'  motto,  an'  I'm 
a-goin'  t'  show  you  how  t'  cut  a  dress-waist  so  't 
it  won't  skew-gee  off  t'  one  side,  no  matter  how 
th'  Lord  made  women-folks.  Es  I  says  t'  Ma, 
'tNo  wonder  most  of  'em  is  one-sided,'  I  says, 
*  seein'  th'  Lord  was  s'  short  o'  goods.'  The  Bible 
says,  he  hed  t'  squeeze  the  first  of  'em  out  o'  one 


172  NEIGHBORS 

rib — V  a  man's  rib  at  that!  'S  fur's  I  c'n  make 
out,  th'  wa'n't  any  too  much  good  material  in  men- 
folks  t'  begin  with — most  of  'em  bein'  a  pertty 
poor  lot,  f'om  th'  patriarchs,  down.  .  .  .  Now 
you  want  t'  lay  your  pattern — after  you've  drafted 
it,  the  way  I  showed  you — ont'  your  goods,  jes' 
so.  You  got  t'  keep  in  mind  dress-goods  is  like 
folks ;  you  got  t'  manage  'em.  D'ye  git  the  idee — 
naze-pa?  es  Mr.  Dassay  says.  He's  French;  lives 
right  nex'  door  t'  us,  'n'  I'm  a-pickin'  up  th'  lan- 
guidge  t'  beat  th'  cars;  same  time  I'm  a-pract'isin' 
him  an'  Mad'lane  so  't  they  c'n  talk  right  smart. 
It's  reel  enjoyable." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  gazed  enviously  at  her  able  as- 
sistant, as  Miss  Malvina's  swift  shears  shaped  a 
dress-waist. 

"  My!  "  she  breathed,  "what  an  opportunity! 
The  reason  I  had  to  leave  Boston  was  because  a 
woman  moved  in  right  across  the  street  from 
where  I  started  up  my  shop.  She  could  put  a 
French  name  to  everything,  and  first  I  knew  all 
my  customers  left  me  for  her.  That's  how  I  came 
here." 

Miss  Malvina's  mouth  was  temporarily  ob- 
structed with  pins.  But  her  look  spoke  volumes. 

"  I  guess  that  wa'n't  th'  only  reason,"  she  sur- 
mised darkly,  as  she  stuck  the  last  pin  into  the 
heart-shaped  cushion  which  was  never  absent 


NEIGHBORS  173 

from  her  waist.  "  I  s'pose  that's  where  you  got 
th'  bright  idee  of  callin'  yourself  Madame 
Louise?  " 

"  Yes,  'twas,"  confessed  Mrs.  Hobbs;  "  an'  it 
did  take ;  you  can't  deny  that." 

Miss  Malvina  straightened  her  little  figure  and 
gazed  almost  pityingly  at  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"  Well,  anyway,"  she  said,  "  you've  got  a  reel 
nice  boy.  I  guess  he's  goin'  t'  git  right  in  with 
th'  young  folks." 

"  I  didn't  know  as  you'd  ever  met  my  son,"  said 
Mrs.  Hobbs.  She  held  her  head  stiffly  erect  and 
red  spots  appeared  on  her  high  cheekbones. 

Miss  Bennett  cackled  happily. 

"  Thank  God,  I've  be'n  able  t'  afford  a  new 
pair  o'  shoes,  for  Ma  an'  me,  too,"  she  said. 
"He's  reel  han'some;  I  seen  that  without  half 
lookin'.  I'll  bet  George  Trimmer's  doin'  a  first- 
rate  shoe  business  these  days.  Last  year,  I  r'mem- 
ber,  Orin  Blake  was  in  th'  shoe  d'partment: 
Orin's  humbly  's  a  rail  fence,  with  red  hair  'n' 
freckles  'n'  a  nose  skyutin'  off  t'  one  side  of  his 
countenance.  Nach'ally  all  the  girls  was  buyin' 
their  shoes  in  Boston.  They  hadn't  one  of  'em 
any  use  fer  Orin, — 'n'  b'sides  he  was  married  t' 
Em'line  Banks.  But  now — you'd  ought  t'  take 
notice  o'  the  girls  'at's  awful  hard  t'  fit.  Keeps 
th'  shoe  clerk  a-humpin'." 


174  NEIGHBORS 

Mrs.  Hobbs  appeared  agitated  by  diverse  emo- 
tions. 

"  I  fancy  my  son  understands  his  business,"  she 
commented  with  dignity. 

"  You  c'n  jes'  bet  he  does,"  agreed  Miss  Mal- 
vina,  "  'n'  so  does  th'  girls.  There,  now;  you'll 
find  this  'ere  waist  '11  set  straight  an'  level.  D'ye 
s'pose  you  c'n  shape  them  arm-sizes?  Don't,  fer 
pity  sake,  cut  'em  out  too  much  at  th'  back,  ner 
in  th'  front,  neither.  I  jest  about  lost  m'  rea- 
son tryin'  t'  keep  them  robes  from  pullin'  out 
premature." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  eyed  the  result  of  Miss  Malvina's 
labors  coldly. 

"  If  I  wasn't  so  drove  with  customers,"  she 
began;  then  stopped  short  to  inquire  fretfully: 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  saying — by  insinuat- 
ing   I  can  tell  you  my  Hoddy  never  had 

any  use   for   girls.     His  mind  's   set  on   other 
things." 

Miss  Malvina  nodded,  her  mouth  once  more 
full  of  pins. 

"Yes;  I  know,"  she  mumbled,  "he  wanted  t' 
go  t'  war  an'  you  wouldn't  let  him.  M-m-m.  You 
told  me  about  it,  m-m-m,  I  don't  blame  you  none. 
I'd  'a'  kep'  him  out  of  it,  too;  m-m-m,  but  you 
can't  keep  him  out  o'  matrimony  s'  easy." 

"Matrimony!" 


NEIGHBORS  175 

Miss  Malvina  removed  the  pins,  with  a  swift- 
ness born  of  long  practice. 

"  That's  what  I  said,  Mis'  Hobbs,  an'  you'll 
find  I'm  dead  right,"  she  said  firmly.  "  Bright 
eyes  is  more  dangerous  'an  bullets — when  it  comes 
t'  keepin'  a  han'some  feller  all  t'  yourself.  .  .  . 
But  there,  I  guess  I'd  better  keep  m'  mouth  shet, 
or  you'll  be  carting  him  off  th'  land  knows  where. 
...  I  gotta  pick  up  my  traps  now  an'  be  mosey- 
in'  along  home.  Where's  that  green  an'  purple 
fer  Mis'  Henshaw  'n'  them  hooks  V  eyes?  Oh, 
yes.  Well,  ory-vwaw!  " 

Mrs.  Hobbs  followed  the  partner  of  her  for- 
tunes— there  was  no  longer  any  attempt  at  deny- 
ing their  business  relations — to  the  door,  her 
vague  eyes  full  of  trouble. 

"  I  wisht  you'd  tell  me  what  you  mean,"  she 
said.  "  I'll  be  worryin'  night  an'  day,  'count  of 
what  you  said.  'Twould  be  pretty  near  as  bad  as 
having  him  go  to  war — to  be  married  young,  I 
mean." 

Miss  Malvina  sniffed  disdainfully. 
'  You'd  ought  t'  be  ashamed  o'  yourself,"  she 
said.    "  Ef  I  had  a  boy- 

"  Well,  you  ain't,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Hobbs. 
"  An'  you  never  will  have." 

"  Anyway,  I'd  want  him  t'  be  happy,  let  alone 
how  I  was  feelin'." 


176  NEIGHBORS 

"  A  single  woman  can't  rightly  say  what  she'd 
do,  if  she  was  a  parent,"  stated  Mrs.  Hobbs  sol- 
emnly. "  Being  a  parent  is — well,  it  makes  every- 
thing different,  as  I  used  to  tell  my  husband.  .  .  . 
But  if  there  was  any  special  girl " 

Miss  Malvina  blinked  thoughtfully  at  Mrs. 
Henshaw's  green-and-purple  robe,  which  she  was 
investing  with  newspaper,  preparatory  to  taking 
it  home. 

"  I  wouldn't  worry  none  ef  I  was  you,  Mis' 
Hobbs,"  she  said  kindly.  "  Young  folks  will  be 
young  folks,  'n'  we  can't  expect " 

"Then  there  is  a  p'ticular  girl?"  quavered 
Mrs.  Hobbs,  clasping  her  bony  hands. 

"  There !  Now,  I  got  you  all  stirred  up  over 
nothin',"  lamented  Miss  Malvina.  "  All  I  got 
t'  say  is:  Girls  is  jest  like  sweet  clover-blows  in 
the  meadows;  they  look  pretty  an'  smell  sweet, 
an'  th'  young  fellows  can't  no  more  help  bein' 
drored  t'  'em  'an  honey-bees.  Mebbe  your  boy 
is  diff'rent  from  th'  rest  of  men-folks,  on  account 
o'  th'  war,  an'  then  ag'in  mebbe  he  ain't." 

Miss  Malvina  patted  her  parcel  which  she  had 
pinned  securely. 

"  An',  anyway,  Mis'  Hobbs,  you'd  ought  t'  be 
glad  an'  thankful  t'  hev  him  git  acquainted  with 
some  nice  young  folks.  Mebbe  it  '11  take  his  mind 
off  them  nasty  muddy  trenches.  .  .  .  They  say 


NEIGHBORS  177 

the's  rats  runnin'  'round  there,  like  kittens  in  a 
kitchen;  ain't  it  awful!  " 

Mrs.  Hobbs'  faded  eyes  brightened. 

"  That's  so !  "  she  breathed.  "  It  might  take 

his  mind  off.  Do  you  know "  She  leaned 

forward  and  whispered  in  Miss  Malvina's  ear: 

"  I've  been  so  afraid  he'd  leave  me.  .  .  .  Uh- 
huh;  an'  go  back  'n'  enlist.  My  heart's  been  some 
better  since  I  come  to  America.  I  guess  he 
thought  I  was  shamming.  .  .  .  But  when  you 
think  of  millions  of  boys,  like  my  Hoddy,  being 

sent  out  to Well,  I  don't  think  about  it  any 

more  than  I  can  help.  I  couldn't  stand  it,  if  I 
did." 

"  Me  neither,"  sympathized  Miss  Malvina. 
"  I  quit  readin'  war  news  quite  a  spell  ago. 
Thinks  s'  I  it  don't  do  them  no  good  an'  it  keeps 
me  a-worritin'.  I  us't  t'  lay  awake  nights,  first  off, 
thinkin'  about  all  them  men  an'  boys  a-layin'  out 
there  on  th'  ground — some  of  'em  hollerin'  fer 
water,  an'  nobody " 

"  Don't!  "  begged  Mrs.  Hobbs. 

"  Well,  I  quit  that.  I  bed  to.  I  got  s'  nervous  I 
couldn't  run  a  gether  straight.  But  Ma,  ev'ry  time 
she  gits  a-holt  of  a  paper,  she  sets  down  an'  reads, 
'n'  ef  she  comes  acrost  anythin'  p'ticerlarly  dret- 
ful  she'll  say:  '  Jes'  listen  t'  this,  Malviny.'  But 
I  know  what's  comin'.  *  In  a  minute,  Ma,'  I  say. 


178  NEIGHBORS 

*  I  got  t'  run  up  this  'ere  seam.'  Lucky  my  sewin'- 
m'chine  ain't  one  of  th'  quiet-runnin'  sort.  I'll 
bet  I've  thanked  th'  Lord  more  'n  fifty  times  fer 
keepin'  me  from  swappin'  it  off  t'  an  agent  six 
months  ago.  It's  th'  handiest  way  to  break  off  a 
conversation.  .  .  .  Now,  don't  you  worry  none, 
Mis'  Hobbs.  'N'  I'll  fetch  this  'ere  green  and 
purple  back  tomorrow.  You  might  go  ahead 
with  them  sleeves.  You'd  ought  t'  be  able  to  do 
that.  But,  say !  Whatever  you  do,  don't  you  try 
t'  lay  them  bias  folds.  I'd  ruther  not  be  r'sponsi- 
ble  fer  'em  afterwards.  Add-you !  " 

Greatly  to  her  surprise  Miss  Malvina  found 
Mrs.  Deaconess  Buckthorn  enthroned  in  the 
patent  rocker  in  the  hair-cloth  parlor.  For  a 
minute  her  heart  beat  high  with  hope:  perhaps 
her  rash  words  of  a  few  months  past  had  been 
forgotten;  perhaps  Mrs.  Buckthorn  wanted  a 
dress  made;  perhaps 

But  that  lady's  first  words  dispelled  the  nascent 
idea. 

"  I  come  to  you,  Malvina,  because  you  are  a 
nom-inal  Chr-istian,"  she  said;  "  and  because  we 
are  str-iving  to  enlist  even  the  poorest  an'  hum- 
blest in  our  work  against  a  common  foe." 

"  I  want  t'  know!  "  murmured  the  little  dress- 
maker. 

"  She's  got  a  p'tition,  Malviny,"  explained  Ma 


NEIGHBORS  179 

busily.  "  I  signed  with  red  ink,  V  she  wants  you 
to." 

"  I  don't  know  as  you've  learned  the  terrible 
misfortune  that  threatens  our  peaceful  com- 
munity," pursued  Mrs.  Buckthorn:  "they're 
a-purposing  to  build — right  here  in  Innisfield — a 
factory  for  the  man-u-facture  of  B  O  M  B  S !  " 

Miss  Malvina  started  back  as  if  one  of  the 
munitions  of  war  in  question  had  exploded  in  the 
middle  of  her  parlor  rug. 

"  Fer  th'  land  sake ! "  she  said  weakly. 
"Whereabouts?" 

"  Murderous  munitions  of  a  sinful  conflict 
ought  not  to  be  con-structed  within  sound  of  a 
Chr-istian  church  bell !  "  intoned  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
majestically.  "  There  can  be  no  two  o-pinions  as 
to  that.  .  .  .  You  will  sign  here,  Malvina  .  .  . 
these  sig-na-tures  are  written  in  b-lood,  so  you  will 
kindly  use  this  fountain-pen." 

Miss  Malvina  gazed  curiously  at  the  document 
which  Mrs.  Buckthorn  handed  her.  At  the  top 
of  the  page  was  written  in  very  black  ink:  "  We 
the  undersigned,  members  of  the  Innisfield  Pres- 
byterian Church,  do  hereby  earnestly  protest 
against  the  manufacture  and  sale  of  munitions  of 
war  in  our  midst,  as  contemplated  by  the  Merks 
Munition  Company  of  Boston,  Mass.  As  a 
church  of  Christ  we  are  stubbornly  opposed  to 


i8o  NEIGHBORS 

war  and  its  desolations,  and  as  citizens  of  a 
peaceful  and  law-abiding  community  we  strenu- 
ously object  being  made  party  to  the  wholesale 
slaughter  of  human  beings  now  going  on  across 
the  seas." 

u  Ev-ery  name  will  be  of  value,  if  only  to  in- 
crease the  volume  of  pro-test,"  said  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn. 

"  'Tain't  goin'  t'  be  right  in  the  village,  is  it?  " 
asked  Miss  Malvina.  "  I  heared  a  spell  back 
somebody' d  bought  th'  old  woolen  mills  over  b' 
the  swamp,  an'  was  fixin'  up  th'  buildin's  fer  some- 
thin'.  .  .  .  Most  o'  these  names  seem  t'  be 
women-folks,"  she  added.  "  Can't  you  git  no 
men-folks  int'rested?  " 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  shook  her  head. 

"  The  men  in  this  'ere  town,"  she  said  acidly, 
"  are  dead  'n'  buried  in  trespasses  an'  sins.  All 
of  'em  say  they're  against  war;  but  when  it  comes 
t'  writin'  down  their  names  in  red  ink  under  this 
'ere  petition  one  an'  all  of  'em  has  an  excuse. 
Elder  Trimmer  thinks  it'll  be  a  grand  op-pertunity 
f 'r  the  church;  so  many  new  working-men  an'  their 
famblys  comin'  t'  town.  An'  Deacon  Scrimger 
says  he  owned  stock  in  the  old  mill,  an'  he  can't 
con-scientiously  use  the  money  he  got  for  it  if  he 
signs  the  petition.  An'  Obed  Salter  an'  Under- 
taker Beels  an'  Henry  Pratt  an'  George  Hen- 


NEIGHBORS  181 

shaw Every  one  of  'em  says  bizniz  rea- 
sons '11  prevent  'em  from  signing." 

Miss  Malvina  seized  the  pen. 

"  I  guess  I  could  side-step  that-a-way,  m'self," 
she  said.  "  I'll  bet  the'll  be  a  lot  o'  new  folks 
at'll  want  dresses  made,  'n'  like  that;  but  ef  my 
name  wrote  down  here  in  red  ink  'd  prevent  one 
nice  young  feller  from  havin'  his  eyes  put  out  b' 
one  o'  them  nasty  explodin'  things  I'd  write  it — 
ef  it  was  t'  take  th'  bread  out  o'  my  mouth  th' 
rest  o'  my  life." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  screwed  the  cap  on  the 
fountain-pen,  her  mouth  puckering  into  a  tight 
knot  during  the  process.  She  loosened  it  to  re- 
mark: 

'  That  sentiment  does  you  credit,  Malvina. 
.  .  .  An'  that  r'minds  me :  how  much  are  you 
charging  for  making  up  a  plain  gingham  dress 
nowadays?  " 

Miss  Malvina  named  a  price  slightly  in  excess 
of  her  usual  rates.  She  could  afford  to  smile,  as 
she  observed  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  protestant  eye- 
brows. 

"  Prices  f'r  most  ev'rythin'  in  th'  sewin'  line 
has  riz,"  she  stated  tranquilly.  "  I  s'pose  it's  th' 
war." 

"  I  had  thought  of  bringin'  over  a  piece  of 
goods  t'  be  made  up,"  said  Mrs.  Buckthorn. 


1 82  NEIGHBORS 

"  But  not  at  that  price,  Malvina.  No;  not  with 
fuel  an'  pro-visions  at  present  rates.  I  cannot 
afford  it." 

She  glanced  searchingly  about  the  little  room, 
as  she  spoke,  her  eyes  pausing  at  last  upon  the 
shining  toes  of  Ma  Bennett's  new  shoes,  which  the 
old  lady  with  the  eager  pride  of  a  child  had  thrust 
into  prominent  view. 

"  I  hope  an'  pray,  Malvina,  you're  not  runnin' 
into  debt,"  she  added  sourly.  "  It's  a  temptation 
of  the  Evil  One,  Malvina,  to  wish  to  appear 
better  off  than  we  are,  an'  only  too  common  in 
this  age  of  luxury  an'  love  of  vulgar  dis-play." 

"  I  s'pose,"  joined  in  Miss  Malvina  briskly, 
"  that  there's  folks  a-plenty  in  this  'ere  town  'at  'd 
seen  me  an'  Ma  carted  off  t'  the  poorhouse  without 
battin'  an  eye — me  that's  worked  summer  'n'  win- 
ter, stayin'  plackets  an'  arm-sizes  'n'  like  that, 
faithful,  fer  folks  'at  don't  'predate  it  no  more 
'n'  the  air  they  breathe.  But  I  guess " 

"  Other  dressmakers  are  quite  as  con-scien- 
tious,  Malvina,"  interrupted  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  as 
she  replaced  the  document  in  her  black  silk  bag 
and  drew  its  strings  tight.  u  I  have  had  no  fault 
to  find  with  Madam  Louise." 

It  was  by  a  praiseworthy  exercise  of  the  will 
that  Miss  Malvina  suppressed  a  carnal  desire  to 
crow  with  laughter. 


NEIGHBORS  183 

"  Well,"  she  said  dryly.  "  I  guess  mebbe  I'd 
ought  t'  thank  you,  Mis'  Buckthorn,  f'r  takin'  an 
int'rest;  so  I'll  tell  you  I  ain't  runnin'  int'  debt. 
I  got  work  a-plenty;  ev  n  ef  the  bomb  fact'ry 
don't  open  up  in  the  fall — which  I  bet  it  does, 
seein'  the's  folks  in  Canada  int'rested.  ...  I 
beared  'em  talkin'  it  over  in  Salter's  groc'ry, 
when  I  was  in  there  las'  night  t'  buy  a  pound  o' 
their  best  print  butter  an'  some  o'  their  eighty- 
cent  mixed  tea  'n'  a  bottle  o'  an-chovy  sauce." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  appeared  suddenly  transfixed, 
her  hand  on  the  door  knob. 

"  What  did  I  under-stand  you  t'  say,  Mal- 
vina?  "  she  asked  in  a  shocked  voice. 

"  I  was  sayin'  folks  from  Canada  owned  most 
o'  the  stock  in  that  there  bomb  fact'ry  out  b'  the 
swamps;  an'  Obed  Salter,  when  he  was  doin'  up 
my  pound  o'  coffee  says  t'  me " 

"But  an-chovy  sauce,  Malvina;  surely  you 
were  not  purchasing  an-cho-vy " 

"Why  not,  I'd  like  t'  know?"  inquired  the 
little  dressmaker.  "  All  them  tasty  things,  like 
pap-reeky  'n'  stuffed  olives  'n' — 'n'  patty-de- 
foy-grass,  is  reel  appetizin';  ain't  they,  Ma?" 

"What-say,  Malviny?"  shrilled  the  old  lady. 

"  I  was  jes'  tellin'  Mis'  Buckthorn  we  was  get- 
tin'  so  we  reelly  liked  French  cookin',  Ma.  .  .  . 
It  makes  a  nice  change  f'om  codfish  'n'  like  that. 


1 84  NEIGHBORS 

Did  you  ever  eat  any  pot-a-few,  Mis'  Buck- 
thorn, or  any — pantelette  dee-muttong?  .  .  . 
You  didn't?  Fer  th'  land  sake!  Well,  you'd 
ought  t'  try  'em.  Ma's  picked  up  wonderful 
sence " 

"  I  fear  you  have  set  your  feet  in  the  broad 
an'  dangerous  paths  of  sinful  lust,  Malvina," 
said  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  her  chaste  bosom  rising 
and  falling  tumultuously.  "  I  had  not  intended 
to  speak  of  it;  but  it  is  commonly  reported  that 
you  are — I  blush  to  speak  it — receiving  p'ticular 
attentions  from  a  foreign  married  man — permit- 
ting him  to  kiss  your  hand — at  your  age,  too !  " 

"  Well,  I'd  like  t'  know  how  that  got  out," 
murmured  Miss  Malvina,  honestly  abashed. 

She  glanced  at  Ma,  whose  ancient  head  was 
vibrating  slightly,  as  if  with  suppressed  excite- 
ment. 

"  I  s'pose  Ma  must  'a1  let  out  somethin'  er  other 
t'  somebody,"  she  said  resignedly.  "  Well,  all  I 
got  t'  say  is,  kissin'  han's,  V  like  that,  don't 
mean  nothin'  pertic'lar  in  French  no  more  'n' 
sayin'  Mondu — which  is  downright  swearin'  in 
English,  es  I  keep  a-tellin'  Mad'lane  constant. 
As  fer  her  pa  bein'  married,  I  s'pose  he  must  'a' 
b'en  once  upon  a  time,  seein'  he's  got  a  girl  mos' 
growed  up.  But,  dam-port,  as  Mad'lane  says — 
when  she  means,  anyhow,  she  don't  keer  a  cotton 


NEIGHBORS  185 

hat — a  body  can't  help  folks  bein'  fur'n;  an'  I 
dunno  but  what  I  like  'em  that-away  on  th'  hull." 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you,  Malvina,"  stated  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  vindictively,  as  she  passed  out  of  the 
door,  with  the  air  of  one  shaking  off  polluted 
dust  from  the  soles  of  flat  substantial  shoes,  "  at 
the  same  hour  I  offer  up  p'titions  fer  the 
heathen.'' 

"  Mercy-bo-coo !  "  suitably  responded  Miss 
Malvina.  "Ory-vwaw!"  And  she  waved  a 
dingy  little  hand  of  dismissal  after  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn's retreating  majesty. 

"  Let  'em  talk,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  laid 
out  Mrs.  Henshaw's  green-and-purple  costume. 
"  I  guess  'twon't  hurt  'em  none,  ner  me  neither." 

But  she  blushed  almost  like  a  girl  as  she  re- 
called Mrs.  Buckthorn's  sentimental  accusation. 

"  My!  I  wisht  I  wa'n't  s'  old  V  humbly,"  she 
mused.  "  'Twould  be  reel  enjoyable  t'  be  r'ceivin' 
attention,  even  ef  the  man  was  fur'n." 

Then  because  the  weather  was  warm  she  re- 
moved her  second-best  hair-front  and  hung  it  on 
a  nail,  already  bristling  with  tissue  paper  pat- 
terns, where  it  dangled  like  a  dejected  little  scalp- 
lock  before  an  Indian  tepee. 


XVII 

THE  young  French  girl  who  had  been  swept 
by  the  hurricane  of  war  to  alien  coasts,  like 
some   strange    foreign  bird,    seemed   joy- 
ously willing  to  accept  America  with  all  its  new- 
world  customs.    It  was  necessary  on  occasions  to 
explain  many  things  in  detail  to  her  father,  who 
when   not   immersed   in   his   books   displayed   a 
critical,   even  censorious  habit  of  mind  toward 
things  American. 

"  You  will  not  forget,  my  Madeleine,  that  you 
are  not  of  the  bourgeoisie,"  he  would  say  gravely. 
"  I  bewail  the  fact  that  in  this  country — where 
prices  are  of  a  highness — I  cannot  afford  even 
a  bonne;  and  to  have  my  daughter  go  about  the 
streets  unattended  is  also  a  grief  to  me.  But  I 
beg  of  you,  do  not  imitate  too  closely  the  women 
of  the  country;  for  however  diverting,  one  should 
constantly  remember  that  all  of  them  are  bour- 
geoisie. Not  one  is  even  distantly  related  to  a 
nobility.  Pourquoif  There  are  no  nobility. 
Therefore  carry  yourself  discreetly,  my  child. 
One  day  we  shall  return  to  our  own  beloved 
country,  where  you  will  marry  and  become  the 

186 


NEIGHBORS  187 

mother  of  Frenchmen,  who  will  be  sorely  needed 
in  a  land  sown  thick  with  the  graves  of  heroes. 
In  that  day  I  shall  have  glory  because  I  have  pre- 
served my  daughter  as  a  legacy  for  France !  " 

And  he  struck  his  breast  with  the  grand  manner. 

Madeleine  appeared  suitably  impressed  with 
this  exalted  paternal  view  of  her  destiny;  but  in 
the  meanwhile  it  was  spring,  and  she  was  eighteen. 
Also,  there  were  surprisingly  pleasant  experiences 
to  be  met  with  in  this  country,  where  young 
women  were  permitted  to  visit  the  shops,  to  make 
purchases,  to  attend  church,  and  even  the  theaters, 
and  likewise  to  make  the  acquaintance  of  such 
young  men,  as  fortune  willed.  Miss  Malvina 
Bennett  (though  not  of  the  nobility)  was  never- 
theless found  to  have  opinions  on  matters  per- 
taining to  conduct. 

"  I  guess  ef  you  b'have  yourself  like  a  lady'd 
ought,  Mad'lane,  th'  ain't  no  use  in  havin'  a  mar- 
ried woman  a-traipsin'  'round  after  you,"  she 
promulgated.  "  I  c'n  take  you  t'  church  'n'  Chris- 
tian Endeavor  'n'  mebbe  t'  Loyal  Tem'rance 
Legion.  Then  the's  the  W.  C.  T.  U.  You'd 
ought  t'  go  t'  that  an'  git  a  white  ribbon  pinned 
onto  you.  I  promised  th'  Lord — es  Mis'  Dea- 
coness Buckthorn  says — to  see  you  done  it.  But 
when  it  comes  t'  pickin'  an'  choosin'  a  beau,  I 
guess  you're  the  one  t'  say  who  it'll  be.  The's 


1 88  NEIGHBORS 

nice  young  fellows  a-plenty  in  town,  V  once  you 
git  t'  goin'  out  in  comp'ny  I'll  bet  th'  other  girls 
'11  hev  t'  look  out.  Not  'at  I  want  t'  make  you 
noways  vain;  pride  goes  b'fore  a  fall;  but  I  don't 
know  why  you  shouldn't  settle  right  down  in  In- 
nesfield  in  a  nice  little  house  o'  your  own,  'stead 
o'  bein'  took  back  t'  a  fur'n  land,  an'  like  enough 
married  to  a  cripple.  I  guess  th'  won't  be  no 
other  kind  o'  men-folks  over  there,  time  they  git 
through  a-firin'  off  at  each  other.  .  .  .  Land! 
it's  a  wonder  they  ain't  all  swallered  up  like 
Sodom  'n'  G'morrah !  " 

Madeleine's  English  vocabulary  had  by  now 
grown  and  expanded  like  the  scriptural  bay-tree, 
so  she  was  able  to  compare  Miss  Malvina's  plans 
for  her  future  with  those  of  her  father.  There 
was  at  present  no  hero  of  France,  maimed  or 
otherwise,  enshrined  in  her  young  fancy,  so  she 
could  think  of  life  in  Innisfield  with  the  same  gay 
insouciance  she  accorded  to  the  patriotic  scheme 
outlined  by  M.  Desaye.  Marriage  and  the  seri- 
ous things  of  life  were  yet  a  great  way  off.  Every- 
thing appeared  fresh  and  joyous;  even  the  distant 
echoes  of  the  great  war  which  reached  the  ear  but 
faintly  in  this  peaceful  village  of  the  new  world 
did  not  seriously  disturb  her.  .  .  .  Sometimes  she 
would  find  her  father,  his  head  bowed  over  a 
newspaper  containing  cabled  news  from  the 


NEIGHBORS  189 

elongated  battle  front,  where  the  terrible  curtain 
of  fire  lifted  only  to  reveal  the  heaps  of  dead  and 
wounded. 

"  I  should  have  remained  to  fight,"  he  would 
declare,  tears  of  mingled  rage  and  sorrow  rolling 
down  his  cheeks.  "  Already  men  older  than  I 
have  given  their  lives,  while  I  sit  here — a  poltroon 
in  cowardly  safety!  " 

At  such  times  he  would  rise,  cast  the  paper  of 
ill  report  upon  the  floor  and  stride  up  and  down, 
his  face  drawn  with  anguish. 

"  Why  did  I  ever  come  to  this  accursed  land," 
he  would  wail,  "  where  this  so  frightful  war  is 
a  mere  spectacle?  They  have  no  heart — these 
Americans.  In  the  spot  where  one  should  find 
good  red  blood  coursing  through  the  center  of 
the  being  there  is  a  dollaire  composed  of  silver 
or  gold — hard,  impervious.  I  have  a  sus- 
picion  "  and  his  voice  would  sink  to  a 

menacing  whisper — "  that  the  blight  of  that  di- 
abolical Kultur  is  to  be  found  here  also.  All  are 
Germans — or  related  to  Germans.  .  .  .  Free 
America?  Peste!  I  laugh  at  their  vaunted  free- 
dom !  In  years  to  come  this  so  stupid  people  will 
see !  Their  evil  hour  will  arrive !  Aha !  It  will 
be  the  turn  of  France  to  look  on,  as  at  a  theater !  " 

It  was  after  one  of  these  frenzied  outbursts 
of  prophecy  that  Harry  Schwartz  arrived  for  a 


1 90  NEIGHBORS 

lesson  in  what  M.  Desaye  innocently  supposed  to 
be  the  young  man's  native  tongue.  It  was  a 
matter  for  painted  astonishment  that  M.  Henri 
Le  Noir  did  not  appear  to  assimilate  the  beau- 
ties of  the  most  elegant  of  all  languages  with 
the  ease  one  should  expect.  His  pronunciation 
was  atrocious,  and  remained  so  after  hours  of 
impassioned  precept  and  example. 

"  Do  you  not  by  now  dream  in  French?  "  de- 
manded his  instructor.  "  Can  you  not  picture  to 
yourself  those  brave  compatriots  at  Verdun? 
Ha !  I  see  them  advance — those  valiant  heroes ! 
I  behold  the  gray  wall  of  Prussians  go  down  be- 
fore them!  But  you — you  see  nothing!  " 

M.  Desaye  was  wrong:  the  young  man's  eyes 
were  at  that  moment  particularly  occupied  (from 
behind  the  shelter  of  his  book)  with  the  slim 
figure  of  Madeleine,  who  was  gathering  the  first 
roses  of  summer  within  fortunate  range  of  his 
vision.  How  enchanting  was  the  curve  of  the 
girl's  pliant  waist  as  she  reached  for  a  bud  high 
up  on  the  unpruned  bush !  Harry  was  finding  his 
lessons  in  French  quite  different  from  the  picture 
his  fancy  had  painted.  Madeleine  was  never 
present  on  these  occasions;  he  seldom  caught  a 
glimpse  of  her,  even.  He  sulkily  supposed  her 
father  was  responsible  for  this.  Even  the  joke 
about  his  name — it  was,  of  course,  a  pleasantry 


NEIGHBORS  191 

to  be  explained  sometime  or  other — but  it  was 
growing  distinctly  tiresome  to  be  addressed  as  a 
compatriot  and  expected  to  discuss  the  latest 
French  victory  or  defeat  in  a  language  which  did 
not  appeal  to  him  in  the  least.  Young  Harry,  it 
must  be  confessed,  was  equally  indifferent  to  the 
resounding  German,  invariably  spoken  at  home 
when  the  oldest  of  the  three  male  Schwartzes  vis- 
ited his  son's  household.  Old  Heinrich  Schwartz 
had  come  from  Germany  with  his  bride  six  months 
before  his  son  was  born.  The  second  Hein- 
rich was  an  American,  albeit  by  courtesy.  In 
due  course  he  became  Harry  and  married  a  de- 
scendant of  an  old  Puritan  family,  hence  the  third 
Harry  was  an  American  in  reality,  brought  up 
to  speak  the  rather  slipshod  English,  jocularly 
known  as  "United  States";  not  unduly  addicted 
to  sausage,  and  meekly  signing  a  pledge  binding 
him  to  abstain  from  malt  and  spirituous  liquors 
at  the  tender  age  of  seven. 

"  I  guess  I'm  a  dub  all  right,  sir,  as  I  told  you 
in  the  beginning,"  he  confessed  to  his  instructor 
at  the  close  of  an  impassioned  torrent  of  French 
of  which  he  understood  but  a  word  or  two. 

M.  Desaye  stared  at  his  pupil  from  under 
drawn  brows.  It  occurred  to  him  that  Henri  Le 
Noir's  eyes  were  of  a  blueness — for  a  Frenchman, 
and  his  features He  studied  the  wholesome 


192  NEIGHBORS 

boyish  face,  with  its  summer  coat  of  tan,  its  com- 
posite nose  and  its  square  American  chin. 

"Of  what  nativity  is  your  mother?"  he  in- 
quired in  easy  French.  Then  repeated  the  words 
in  English,  with  an  accent  of  disdain. 

"My  mother?"  repeated  the  young  man. 
"  Oh,  I  guess  she's  just  plain  American.  She  says 
my  great-grandfather  came  over  in  the  *  May- 
flower.' '  And  he  grinned  pleasantly. 

"  Your  father  must  have  been  French,  with  the 
name  Le  Noir — of  a  possibility  a  Huguenot. 
You  can  inform  me — n'est-ce-pas?  " 

"  — Er — I  say,  sir,"  began  Harry,  his  honest 
face  turning  very  red.  "  I  guess  it's  time  I  owned 
up- 

Then  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  Madeleine  out  of 
the  tail  of  his  eye  and  desisted  shamefacedly. 

M.  Desaye  perceived  the  blush  and  embarrass- 
ment and  smiled. . 

"  There  is  nothing  to  redden  the  visage  in  hav- 
ing one's  descent  from  the  Huguenots,"  he  said 
indulgently.  "  But  you  should  know  of  your 
family  history,  my  friend.  A lions!  I  require 
you  to  write  in  French  a  brief  account  of  the 
Huguenots,  including  your  own  family  history — 
if,  as  I  suspect,  you  are  a  descendant  of  one  of 
the  emigres  arriving  in  America  after  the 
persecution." 


NEIGHBORS  193 

Translated  into  less  fluent  English,  the  young 
man  pondered  the  proposal  dubiously. 

"  I'm  afraid "  he  began. 

But  M.  Desaye  was  yisited  by  an  inspiration. 

"  Why  have  I  not  made  ze  acquaintance  of 
votre  pere? "  he  demanded.  "You  will  bring 
him  next  lesson,  mon  ami.  To  him  I  shall  spik 
of  all  zose  sings.  Bienf  for  today  all  ees  feenish." 

Madeleine  had  gathered  her  roses  and  was 
arranging  them  in  a  glass  bowl  when  young  Harry 
Schwartz  emerged  from  the  house,  his  Gram- 
maire  Franqaise  under  his  arm,  deep  gloom  upon 
his  brow. 

"  See  here,"  he  said,  with  a  total  absence  of  the 
French  polish  his  harassed  instructor  had  been 
endeavoring  to  inculcate.  "  I'm  in  the  devil  of  a 
mess." 

"  Devil-of-a-mess  ? "  echoed  Madeleine,  arch- 
ing her  delicate  brows.  "Ees  zat  nize  word?" 

Innocent,  adorable  coquetry  peeped  at  him 
from  under  her  drooping  lashes. 

"  You  not  etudier  your  legon  an'  my  papa 
es-cold  you — eh?  " 

"  I  can't  learn  French  to  save  my  life,"  con- 
fessed Harry  gloomily.  "  And  now  he  thinks 
I'm  a  Hug — Hug-er-no;  an'  I  ain't,  of  course. 
My  grandfather  is  the  Germanest  German  you 
ever  saw.  He's  at  our  house  now,  eating  sauer- 


i94  NEIGHBORS 

kraut  an'  drinking  lager  an'  roaring  about  the 
war.  I  guess  your  father  'd  kill  me  if  he  got  on 
to  the  facts." 

"  I  bet  a  dollaire — oui"  agreed  Madeleine, 
dimpling. 

"  Well,  I  must  say,  you're  cool!  "  cried  young 
Harry  indignantly.  "  Seeing  it  was  you  got  me 
into  it — introducing  me  as  Ong-ree  Le-what- 
you-call-'em.  ...  I  supposed  you  were  going 
to  help  me  learn  French.  You  said  you 
would." 

Madeleine  surveyed  her  fragrant  handiwork 
with  a  pleased  smile. 

"You  aire  so  mad  to  me?"  she  inquired. 
"  For  what  aire  you  so  mad?  " 

"  Because  I — because  you 'Tisn't  fair  to 

leave  a  fellow  in  the  soup,  the  way  you  did.  .  .  . 
He  wants  to  see  my  dad;  find  out  if  he's  a  sure- 
'nough  Hug " 

"  Huguenot,"  supplied  the  girl  gravely.  "  An' 
you  sink  'e  ees  not?  " 

"  'Course  he  ain't  I  Dad's  American;  so  am  I. 
And  I'm  darned  glad  of  it!  " 

Young  Harry  fairly  irradiated  stars  and  stripes 
as  he  made  this  declaration.  Madeleine  gazed 
at  him  dreamily,  her  large  dark  eyes  holding  un- 
sounded depths  of  mystery. 

"  Me — I  am  darn  glad  aussi"  she  said  calmly. 


NEIGHBORS  195 

"  I  sink  I  like  you  because  you   aire  not — not 
Huguenot." 

"  Say !  by  George !  "  cried  Harry,  suddenly 
soaring  to  a  seventh  heaven  of  unimagined  bliss. 

"  Is  that  a  sure-enough  fact?     Because  if  it  is 
j » 

He  was  winged  in  mid-air  by  the  appearance  of 
M.  Desaye,  a  most  amiable  smile  upon  his  lips. 

"  This  afternoon,"  he  said,  with  the  faultless 
accent  he  had  preserved  through  many  vicissi- 
tudes, "  I  contemplate  doing  myself  the  great 
honor  of  paying  the  visit  ceremonious  to  mon- 
sieur, your  father.  I  have  the  desire  profound 
to  know  more  of  you,  my  friend." 


XVIII 

BUT  again  correlated  events  combined  to  pre- 
vent the  astute  Frenchman  from  carrying 
out  his  designs.     In  a  word,  on  that  par- 
ticular afternoon,  he  was  not  permitted  by  an 
overruling  Providence  to  visit  the  home  of  Harry 
Schwartz — where  old  Heinrich  sat  enthroned  in 
a  splint-bottomed  chair  of  massive  construction, 
discoursing  upon  the  exalted  characteristics  of  the 
German  Emperor  for  the  benefit  of  his  son,  who 
listened  respectfully. 

When  young  Harry  slid  into  the  room,  after 
depositing  his  Grammaire  Franqaise  on  the  stair 
leading  up  to  his  room,  his  grandfather,  in  full 
tide  of  sonorous  German,  was  painting  the  future 
of  the  inhabited  globe,  as  it  would  shortly  eventu- 
ate under  the  beneficent  Prussian  rule.  Harry's 
mother,  with  meekly  down-dropped  lids,  sat  mend- 
ing stockings.  She  did  not  understand  much  of 
what  the  old  man  was  saying,  though  in  the  first 
years  of  her  married  life  she  had  made  a  valiant 
attempt  to  learn  the  language  of  "  the  Father- 
land." But  as  soon  as  her  eyes  rested  upon  her 

son  she  knew  something  untoward  had  happened. 

196 


NEIGHBORS  197 

The  young  man  sat  down  in  a  chair  which  com- 
manded a  view  of  the  street,  his  brow  deeply 
corrugated,  his  eyes  fixed  and  gloomy. 

"  Wie  geht's,  Heinrich?  "  shouted  the  old  man. 
"  How  you  vas,  heh?  " 

Harry  responded  feebly.  He  had  never  liked 
the  name  Heinrich,  and  today  it  positively  grated 
upon  the  ear. 

"  Vot  dot  poy  needs  is  goot  milidary  drain- 
ing," declared  old  Schwartz,  staring  hard  at  his 
grandson  from  over  the  top  of  his  calabash 
pipe.  "  You  know  vat  I  do  at  your  age, 
zon?" 

Harry  muttered  something  unintelligible,  his 
eyes  seeking  the  street. 

'What's  the  matter,  Harry?"  inquired  his 
mother  in  a  low  voice,  her  inquiry  perfectly 
masked  by  the  vociferous  remarks  of  old  Hein- 
rich to  the  effect  that  a  sojourn  in  America  utterly 
spoiled  a  young  man. 

"  Oh,  nothing,"  muttered  Harry. 
1  You  Heinrich !  "  declaimed  his  grandfather. 
"  Grate  pig  poy  you — vat  for  you  not  go  pack  t' 
Dcutschlandt  an'  pe  a  man — heh?    Herr  Gott, 
poy!  haf  you  no  lofe  of  coundry?  " 

'  Yes,"  said  Harry.  "  But  you  should  remem- 
ber that  I'm  an  American,  sir." 

" Ach!    You  mage  me  sick!  "  scolded  the  old 


198  NEIGHBORS 

man.  "  Vot  iss  your  name — heh?  Is  Heinrich 
Schwartz  von  American  name — heh?" 

"  Never  mind,  dear:  grandfather  doesn't  mean 
that,"  soothed  his  mother.  "  They've  been  talk- 
ing about  the  war,  and  it  always  excites  Gran'pa 
Schwartz." 

The  old  man  surveyed  his  daughter-in-law 
belligerently. 

"  You  haf  pring  my  grandzon  Heinrich  up  to 
pe  von  pig  sissy,"  he  growled.  "  But  ve  s'all  see 
vat  happen  in  two — t'ree  year.  You  vill  pe  glad 
yourself  to  brodect  under  dot  good  Deutsch  name 
of  Schwartz !  " 

At  that  precise  moment  M.  Desaye,  exquisitely 
gloved  and  cravatted,  stood  in  the  door  of  his 
dwelling.  He  was  about  to  sally  forth  to  pay  his 
respects  to  an  exiled  son  of  France,  one  M.  Le 
Noir,  for  the  purpose  of  conversing  with  him 
concerning  the  decadent  youth  who  bore  his  name. 
M.  Desaye  wore  a  smile  of  pleased  anticipation, 
and  he  submitted  gracefully  to  the  innocent 
arts  of  Madeleine,  who  detained  him  for  the 
purpose  of  pinning  a  moss  rosebud  in  his 
buttonhole. 

"  You  will  not  derange  yourself  with  the  soli- 
tude of  my  absence  ?  "  he  inquired  tenderly. 

"  No,  my  father,"  replied  Madeleine.  "  I  have 
my  duties  of  the  home  to  attend." 


NEIGHBORS  199 

She  used  the  English  word  home  in  her  demure 
little  speech. 

M.  Desaye  twisted  his  mustache  thoughtfully. 

"  Ah !  I  perceive  you  no  longer  find  your  own 
language  adequate,"  he  commented. 

Madeleine's  dark  head  drooped. 

"  We  have  no  word  for  home,"  she  murmured. 

M.  Desaye  sighed. 

"  Nevertheless  in  France  we  have — homes," 
he  said;  "but  not — you  are  thinking — as  in 
America  ?  " 

"  Not — as  in  America,"  she  echoed.  "  Mees 
Malvina " 

"  Ah,  yes,"  he  smiled,  "  that  very  amiable  per- 
son will  doubtless  tell  you  many  things.  I  permit 
you  to  listen,  since  you  have  no  female  com- 
panion; but  to  young  men — no!  " 

He  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek;  then  descended  the 
steps  with  dignified  composure. 

"  Ah,  my  father,  one  small  instant  permit  me ; 
there  is  in  the  rear  of  your  coat  a  button — I  run 
to  fetch  a  needle !  " 

M.  Desaye  endeavored  vainly  to  adjust  his 
range  of  vision  so  as  to  take  in  the  faulty 
garniture. 

"  I  had  not  noticed  the  absence  of  a  button," 
he  told  his  daughter,  when  she  again  appeared, 
with  her  tiny  work-basket.  "  But  surely  you  will 


200  NEIGHBORS 

not  repair  so  serious  a  loss  where  the  whole  world 
may  see :  we  will  retire  within." 

But  when,  apparently  much  annoyed  by  the 
trifling  occurrence,  he  would  have  removed  the 
garment  in  question,  his  daughter  demurred. 

It  would  not  be  necessary,  she  said,  when  only 
the  matter  of  a  few  stitches  was  required.  She 
bent  her  head  to  thread  the  needle.  It  was  sin- 
gular how  difficult  an  operation  this  had  become. 

"Exalted  Mother  of  the  Saints!"  besought 
Madeleine,  in  the  privacy  of  her  young  breast, 
"  do  not,  I  beseech  of  thee,  permit  my  father  to 
seek  for  M'sieu'  Le  Noir,  for,  as  thou  art  aware, 
there  is  no  such  person." 

And  she  twisted  the  frayed  end  of  the  silk 
thread,  while  her  father  looked  on. 

"  Have  you  no  wax?  "  he  inquired  mildly. 

Of  a  surety  she  had;  but  alas!  the  wax  must 
have  hidden  itself  with  malicious  purpose.  Seek 
for  it  as  she  would,  it  could  not  be  found. 

"  Kind  Lady  of  Heaven,"  murmured  the  girl, 
as  she  thrust  her  head  into  a  dark  corner  of  the 
kitchen  cupboard,  "  once  thou  also  wert  young  in 
years  and  wisdom.  I  had  no  intent  to  deceive,  but 
only  to  avoid  dissension — of  which  there  is  al- 
ready too  much  in  the  world.  Therefore  be 
graciously  pleased  to  aid  me !  " 

And,   all  the  while,  the  small  strawberry  of 


NEIGHBORS  201 

pink  wax  was  nestling  in  the  nethermost  corner 
of  the  work-basket.  .  .  .  The  process  of  fasten- 
ing the  loose  button  appeared  a  tedious  one  to 
M.  Desaye,  but  he  was  magnificently  patient 
withal.  What  would  you,  in  a  foreign  land,  far 
from  one's  tailleur?  He  thanked  his  daughter 
profusely.  .  .  .  Ah!  but  quickly  she  must  run 
for  the  brosse  a  nettoyer  les  habits!  There  were 
threads,  visible  only  to  Madeleine's  bright  eyes, 
and  dust — helas!  how  lamentable  the  dust  in  the 
houses  of  America. 

"  Bienf    Now  I  depart,"  said  M.  Desaye. 

Madeleine  followed  him  once  more  to  the 
door.  Her  heart  filled  with  vague  misgivings. 

"  Of  a  possibility,"  he  was  saying,  "  I  will  on 
my  return  be  accompanied  by  M.  Le  Noir.  If  he 
is  a  Huguenot ' 

"  But,  if  by  chance,  you  should  find  that  gentil- 
homme  a — a  Pares-be-be-te-rien," — she  guilefully 
sought  to  detain  him.  "  You  will  be  friends — 
n'est-ce  pas?" 

Her  father  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly. 

"  Of  such  things  I  know  nothing,"  he  admitted. 
"  But  I  will  still  offer  the  descendant  of  a  French- 
man my  friendship — yes." 

His  foot  sought  the  bottom  step.  He  was  about 
to  depart.  .  .  .  The  kind  Lady  of  Heaven  had 
not  heard,  then.  What  would  befall  Harry 


202  NEIGHBORS 

Schwartz,  she  hardly  dared  to  think;  and  it  had 
been  all  her  fault — all!  But  stay — a  lady  in  a 
light  summer  gown,  wheeling  a  perambulator 
had  paused  before  the  gate.  She  was  about  to 
enter. 

"  It  is,"  warbled  Madeleine,  "  our  proprie- 
tairef  " 

Her  young  face  wore  an  expression  of  devout 
thankfulness.  .  .  .  One  should  not  be  too  hasty 
in  censuring  the  saints,  who  were  doubtless  occu- 
pied with  many  affairs.  M.  Desaye's  eyes  fol- 
lowed those  of  his  daughter.  He  advanced  nim- 
bly to  hold  the  gate  wide,  and  Mrs.  Pettibone 
carefully  guided  the  perambulator  inside.  .  .  . 
During  the  simple  process  she  could  not  help  but 
think  how  wonderful  that  she — Philura'  Rice — 
should  be  wheeling  a  baby,  her  baby,  inside  that 
gate,  through  which  she  had  passed  innumerable 
times  in  her  lonely  and  neglected  maidenhood. 
Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not  know  that  she  was  at  that 
moment  both  an  obstruction  and  an  answer  to 
prayer. 

For  a  brief  moment  M.  Desaye  contemplated 
excusing  himself  on  the  plea  of  a  former  engage- 
ment. A  woman,  with  a  baby,  did  not  offer  a 
proper  substitute  for  his  contemplated  visit  cere- 
monious. But  a  second  glance  at  the  small  flushed 
face  of  their  proprietaire  caused  him  to  change 


NEIGHBORS  203 

his  mind.  And  his  daughter  Madeleine — she  ap- 
peared singularly  pleased  to  be  receiving  this 
strange  lady. 

Ah !  they  had  met  before,  these  two.  He  must 
discover  the  mystery  of  a  yellow  dog,  to  which 
both  were  referring  with  smiles.  The  yellow  dog, 
it  appeared,  had  returned  again  and  yet  again  to 
the  parsonage,  where  at  last  his  wistful  brown 
eyes  and  hungry  little  nose  had  won  the  com- 
passion of  the  minister  himself. 

"  We  have  named  him  Fido,"  Mrs.  Pettibone 
was  saying,  rather  proudly.  "  He  follows  the 
baby  carriage  everywhere,  and  at  home  he 
watches  the  baby,  while  he  is  taking  his  nap  on 
the  piazza." 

A  plaintive  whine  from  the  gate  revealed  the 
presence  of  the  persevering  Fido.  With  laughter 
Madeleine  ran  to  admit  him. 

"  Ah,  mechant,"  she  scolded,  "  so  I  meet  you 
again!  Tell  me,  is  it  bebe  you  love,  or  the 
cotellette — eh?  " 

M.  Desaye  had  hastened  to  fetch  chairs  to  the 
patch  of  shady  lawn,  and  here  presently  he  es- 
sayed to  make  the  acquaintance  of  the  lady,  whose 
appearance  (he  was  telling  himself)  suggested 
a  delicate  quaintness,  illusive  yet  undeniably 
agreeable.  She  was,  he  learned,  the  wife  of  that 
ecclesiastique  who  had  already  honored  him  with 


204  NEIGHBORS 

a  visit.  He  protested  that  he  was  not  worthy  of 
such  condescension. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  blushed. 

"  We  should  be  very  glad  to  see  you  at 
church,"  she  said,  aware  of  her  opportunity  and 
of  her  duty,  which  she  strove  to  keep  well  in 
view. 

She  gazed  shyly  at  the  French  gentleman,  of 
whom  she  had  heard  such  varying  accounts.  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  had  referred  to  him  darkly  as  "  a  god- 
less person  in  our  midst,  given  over  to  strong 
drink  and  Sabbath  breaking."  From  Electa 
Pratt,  who  lived  in  the  rear,  had  come  scraps  of 
information  regarding  the  household  habits  of 
the  foreigners. 

"  I  sh'd  think  you'd  hate  to  have  such  queer 
people  livin'  in  your  house,  Philura,"  said  Miss 
Pratt.  "  They  set  up  nights  till  all  hours,  an' 
out  in  under  that  apple  tree  's  if  the'  wa'n't  a 
thing  to  do  in  the  world.  I  seen  her  bring  a  bottle 
'n'  a  glass  out  t'  him  more  'n  once.  .  .  .  Some- 
body 'd  ought  t'  do  somethin'." 

But  (reflected  Mrs.  Pettibone)  M.  Desaye  did 
not  resemble  even  remotely  the  type  of  person 
known  as  "  a  drinking  man."  He  was  smiling  at 
her  very  kindly,  and  quite  as  if  he  understood  her 
embarrassment. 

"  Madame"  he  said,  "  permit  me  to  t'ank  you. 


NEIGHBORS  205 

I  s'all  be  mos'  happy  to  accept  your  invitation, 
my  daughter  Madeleine  also." 

"  We  expect,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  "  to  have 
an  evangelist  in  our  church  beginning  next  week. 
We  hope  everybody  who  is  not — who  is " 

She  paused,  with  an  appealing  glance  at  the 
girl  who  was  cooing  over  the  baby,  nestled  sleep- 
ily in  his  blankets. 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  a  very  good  time  of  year— 
in  the  summer.  But  the  session  are  anxious  to 
have  our  revival  begin  before  the  Methodists; 
and  besides,  we  can  get  the  evangelist  now,  and 
perhaps  later — I  don't  know  why  people  shouldn't 
be  converted  in  the  summer  as  well  as  in  the 
winter." 

M.  Desaye  had  listened  attentively.  There 
were  several  significant  words  in  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone's  little  speech  which  he  recalled  without 
difficulty. 

"Re-vival?"  he  inquired;  "of  your  goodness 
you  will  make  clear?  " 

Mrs.  Pettibone  absent-mindedly  patted  the 
yellow  dog,  who  laid  his  head  upon  her  knee  with 
a  confiding  gesture.  M.  Desaye  saw  without 
seeming  to  see  the  work-worn  little  hand  with  its 
painfully  clean  but  uncared-for  finger-nails.  Did 
all  women  in  America  despise  the  simple  arts  of 
the  toilet,  he  wondered. 


2o6  NEIGHBORS 

"  A  revival,"  said  the  minister's  wife,  "  a  re- 
vival is " 

She  paused  to  reflect  dubiously:  she  must  not 
betray  the  fact  that  she  really  dreaded  the  re- 
vival. She  had  already  ventured  to  confess  as 
much  to  the  minister.  But  of  course  all  this  had 
been  discussed  in  the  inner  fastnesses  of  the  par- 
sonage. Outwardly  it  was  her  duty — as  Mr. 
Pettibone  had  pointed  out — to  appear  otherwise. 
She  strove  to  smile. 

"  Why,  a  revival  is — I  will  try  to  explain — we 
have  a  special  preacher — an  evangelist — 

"  Ah,  yes,  an  evangelhtef  'comprehended 
M.  Desaye.  "  We  also  have  such  persons  in 
France." 

"  Well,  the  evangelist  preaches,  and  he  has  an 
assistant  who  sings.  They — we  all  try  to  interest 
unconverted  persons." 

"  Qui  nest  pas  transformed  murmured  the 
Frenchman.  "  Bien!  I  un'erstan'.  Many 
t'anks." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  appeared  slightly  bewildered. 

"  We  want — we  hope  every  one  will  come,"  she 
concluded. 

"An'  be  convert?" 

M.  Desaye  smiled  pleasantly.  If  there  was  a 
gentle  raillery  in  his  eyes  Mrs.  Pettibone  did  not 
perceive  it.  She  had  performed  her  duty,  as  the 


NEIGHBORS  207 

wife  of  a  clergyman,  supposedly  concerned  above 
all  things  in  the  salvage  of  souls,  domestic  and 
foreign.  Besides,  Mrs.  Buckthorn  meant  to  call 
upon  the  Desayes:  she  had  said  so.  And  Mrs. 
Buckthorn  would 

"  'E  ees  not  as-leep — zat  small  one,"  cried 
Madeleine  ecstatically.  "  See !  'e  laugh  to  me. 
Good  Ian',  I  like  to  embrace  'eem !  'E  ees  one — 
peach  of  be  be." 

"Would  you  like  to  hold  him?"  asked  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  with  unexampled  generosity. 

'  You  jus'  bet  your  s-weet — your  s-weet 

Oh,  I  forget  w'at  your  bet.  Mais,  out,  I  like  bet- 
taire  to  hoi'  zat  bebe  zan  t'  eat  his  bes'  bonnet. 
.  .  .  You  permit — eh?" 

M.  Desaye  perceived  the  startled  look  which 
had  come  over  the  face  of  their  proprietaire.  He 
had  himself  been  visited  of  late  by  doubts  con- 
cerning the  strange  and  interesting  idioms,  so 
easily  acquired  by  his  daughter. 

"You  not  like  zose  idiome,  perhaps?"  he  in- 
quired, after  Mrs.  Pettibone  had  effected  the 
transfer  of  her  child  to  the  soft  arms 
of  Madeleine — a  process  accompanied  by  all 
those  inarticulate  cooings  common  to  the 
mothers  of  the  race  since  the  days  of  the  cave 
dwellers. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  smiled  deprecatingly. 


208  NEIGHBORS 

"  It  is  really  quite  wonderful  how  well — how 
quickly  Miss  Desaye  has  learned  English,"  she 
said;  "but " 

"  I  learn  from  Mees  Malvina,"  stated  Made- 
leine proudly.  "  You  are  acquaint'  wiz  Mees 
Malvina— eh?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone.  "  I  have 
always  known  her.  Miss  Malvina  is " 

She  paused  to  consider: 

"  She  is  one  of  the  kindest  and  best  friends  I 
have.  .  .  .  But " 

"  S'e  is  mos' — adrolte — zat  Mees  Malvina, 
w'at  you  call  clevaire,"  said  Madeleine  joyously. 
"  She  tell  me  so  I  mak'  folks  un'erstan'.  Before 
I  know  'nough  not  to  come  in  out  of — pluie — 
r-rain.  Now  I  am  aware  of  all  talk  Americaine. 
.  .  .  La— la,  bcbc!  la— la!" 

"  Zose  idiome  of  American  speech  are  mos'  in- 
terresant"  said  M.  Desaye  pointedly;  "but  I  in- 
quire of  you,  madame — are  zey  comme  il  faut  for 
a  young  demoiselle  not  of  ze  bourgeoisie?  I 
hope  I  make  myself  of  a  clearness?  " 

"  Well,"  temporized  Mrs.  Pettibone,  "  it  is 
perhaps  wiser  to  first  learn — to  first  acquire  the 
simple  rudiments  of  English." 

She  spoke  primly  and  distinctly.  It  seemed  im- 
possible not  to  harbor  the  impression  that  these 
foreigners  were  slightly  deaf. 


NEIGHBORS  209 

"  An'  zose  idiome,"  persisted  M.  Desaye. 
"You  not  like  zem — n'est-ce-pasf  " 

"Well,  f'r  th'  land  sake,  Philura!— I  mean 
Mis'  Pettibone,"  chirruped  Miss  Bennett's  fa- 
miliar voice.  "  Ef  it  ain't  good  f'r  sore  eyes  t' 
see  you  a-settin'  out  in  your  own  yard,  like  you 
ust'  to,  an'  me  a-slippin'  through  the  hedge." 

Miss  Malvina  joyously  embraced  and  kissed 
her  pastor's  wife,  in  the  pretty  foreign  fashion 
she  had  acquired  from  Madeleine. 

"An*  that  baby;  ain't  he  the  grandest?  My! 
My!  An'  Mad'lane  a-holdin'  him  's  snug  's  a 
bug  in  a  rug.  .  .  .  Kitty — kitty!  Where's  th' 
nice  kitty?  .  .  .  Course  he  sees  our  cat,  with  his 
tail's  big's  two  on  'count  o'  that  there  dog.  .  .  . 
I  says  t'  Ma,  I  jest  got  t'  run  over  V  take  a 
squint  at  that  baby,  ef  it's  only  f'r  a  minute.  .  .  . 
Say!  Who  does  he  look  like?  Kind  o'  reminds 
me  o'  your  folks,  Philura — I  mean  Mis'  Petti- 
bone — but  his  nose  an'  the  set  of  his  years — I 
d'clare,  when  he  turns  them  eyes  o'  hisen  s'  sol- 
emn, he's  the  spit  'n'  image  o'  Mr.  Pettibone, 
when  he  says  *  let  us  pray.' ' 

M.  Desaye  was  gazing  quizzically  at  his 
neighbor,  whose  appearance  indicated  entire  for- 
getfulness  of  self.  She  was  wearing  an  ancient 
black  and  white  muslin,  and  feathery  curls  of 
white  hair  were  blowing  about  her  forehead.  For 


210  NEIGHBORS 

perhaps  the  first  time  he  noticed  the  brightness  of 
Miss  Malvina's  eyes  and  the  piquant  energy  of 
her  gestures.  The  name  Bennett  did  not,  it  was 
true,  suggest  any  sprightly  admixture  of  French 
blood;  but  there  was  a  certain  manner,  a  certain 
verve 

"  In  this  country,"  he  mused,  "  where  one  finds 
all  races  commingled  like  salad  in  a  bowl  one  can 
never  be  sure." 

With  this  thought  in  mind,  he  looked  at  his 
neighbor  a  second  time,  then  a  third;  and  the  little 
dressmaker  recalled  to  self-consciousness  by  his 
earnest  scrutiny,  suddenly  clapped  her  hands  to 
her  forehead. 

"  My  stars  alive !  "  she  cried,  "  ef  I  ain't  gone 
an'  come  over  here  without  my  hair  front;  it  bein' 
s'  warm,  I  took  it  off  'n'  hung  it  on  a  nail  yistiday, 
then  I  guess  I  must  'a'  slipped  some  paper  pat- 
terns over  it  an'  clean  fergot  it.  I  bet  I  look  most 
's  bad  's  Billy  Sunday,  after  he's  through 
a-preachin'  t'  sinners !  " 


XIX 

YOUNG  Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener  Hobbs 
turned  from  the  mirror,  where  he  had  been 
knotting  his  tie  with  scrupulous  care,  and 
faced  his  mother.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
and  Mrs.  Hobbs'  eyes  filled  with  ready  tears  as 
she  gazed  at  him:  If  she  had  not  compelled  him 
— by  every  fond  art  known  to  mothers — to  ac- 
company her  to  America,  that  beautiful  young 
face  might  even  now  be  hidden  in  some  shallow 
grave  behind  the  Somme.  But  she  dared  not 
speak  her  thoughts  to  her  son.  Instead,  she  fell 
to  trembling  under  his  somber  eyes.  She  was 
afraid  of  what  he  had  to  say.  She  was  always 
afraid  of  late,  and  shivered  at  the  slightest  sound. 

Her  son  fetched  a  deep,  short  breath  and  ex- 
haled it  sharply. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  mother?"  he 
demanded  with  some  impatience. 

"With  me?  Oh,  nothing,"  the  woman  lied 
hurriedly.  "  I — was  just  thinking — what  a  nice 
necktie  you've  got  on,  Hoddy.  It's — a  real  pretty 
color.  I — I  s'pose  you  got  it  down  in  the  store. 

211 


212  NEIGHBORS 

.  .  .  Does — Mr.  Trimmer  allow  you  any  dis- 
count? He'd  ought  to,  seeing  you  work  for  him 

an'  seeing  I But,  anyway,  I'm  glad  you've 

got  such  a  nice  job,  Hoddy." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  furtively  and  sighed. 

"Going  to  the  social?"  she  added,  with  an 
effort  after  a  casual  manner.  "  I  would,  if  I  was 
you.  It'll  be  real  pleasant.  I  heard  some  of  my 
customers  talking " 

"  Sit  down,  mother:  I  want  to  talk  to  you." 

He  led  her  unresisting  to  a  chair,  placed  her 
in  it,  and  stood  over  her,  the  fold  between  his 
eyes  deepening. 

"  I've  been  thinking  for  a  long  time  I  have  no 
business  to  be  here.  You're  comfortable  now; 
got  a  good  business  started — thanks  to  that  little 
woman  who's  helping  you.  You  don't  need 
me " 

"  Don't  say  it,  Hoddy:  don't  say  it!  "  begged 
the  woman,  her  head  sagging  weakly  against  the 
back  of  her  chair.  "  I've  been  dreading  it,  night 
an'  day,  for  I  don't  know  how  long." 

"  Time  we  had  it  over,  then,"  he  muttered. 

"  I'd  a  sight  rather  you'd  get  married,  Hoddy," 
she  wailed. 

"Get  married?  Whatever  put  that  into  your 
head?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know — seeing  you  going  out,  all 


NEIGHBORS  213 

dressed  up,  I  guess.  An'  there's  nice  girls  here, 
ain't  there,  Hoddy?" 

He  thrust  her  suggestion  behind  him  with  an 
impatient  gesture. 

"  Now  see  here,  mother.  I'm  going  to  do  one 
of  two  things.  I've  made  up  my  mind.  .  .  .  I'm 
quitting  Trimmer's  this  day  week." 

"  Oh,  Hoddy,  you're  never  going  to  give  up 
your  nice  job?  Oh,  dear!  Oh,  dearl  My 
heart " 

He  flashed  her  a  keen  glance:  then  unbidden 
fetched  her  a  glass  of  water  from  the  faucet. 

"  Here,  drink  this,"  he  urged  with  rough  ten- 
derness. "  Your  heart's  all  right,  mother — of 
course,  it's  all  right.  Now,  listen.  .  .  .  Don't 
cry!" 

But  she  continued  to  whimper  weakly,  clutching 
at  the  front  of  her  dress. 

"  I  guess  you  wouldn't  care  if  I  was  to  die  to- 
morrow," she  said  querulously.  "  Maybe  you'd 
be  glad.  Then  you'd  be  free  to  go  an'  get  killed 
in  one  o'  them  nasty  trenches.  .  .  .  That's  all 
you're  thinking  of  day  an'  night.  You  don't  care 
for  your  mother.  You  only  care  for  getting  your 
own  way.  That's  the  way  with  men." 

He  sprang  from  the  chair  he  had  drawn  close 
to  hers  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down,  as  if  he 
could  no  longer  listen  quietly. 


2i4  NEIGHBORS 

"  Thank  God  all  women  aren't  such  cowards!  " 
he  muttered.  "  Heaven  help  the  world,  if  they 
were !  .  .  .  Now,  see  here,  mother,  you  haven't 
given  me  a  chance  to  say  what  I  wanted  to.  It's 
this:  I'll  either  go  over  to  Canada  and  enlist — 
plenty  of  Americans  are  doing  that,  and  I  tell  you 
straight  I'd  be  ashamed  to  show  my  face  in  Lon- 
don now — or  I'll  go  into  the  munitions  plant 
here  and  help  that  way.  I  won't  stay  in  Trim- 
mer's shop  another  day  selling  silly  high-heeled 
shoes  to  silly  women.  It  isn't  a  man's  job." 

Mrs.  Hobbs  sat  up,  dabbing  at  her  eyes. 

"  I  hear  somebody  knocking,"  she  said,  with 
suddenly  renewed  energy.  "  I  suppose  it's  that 
Miss  Bennett.  .  .  .  But  let  me  tell  you,  Hoddy, 
I'll  never  consent  to  you're  going  to  Canada;  I'll 
die  first.  Why  should  you  go  to  Canada?  But 
they  do  say  they're  going  to  pay  the  munitions 
workers  big  money.  Maybe  if  you  was  to  be  real 
careful,  Hoddy,  I  wouldn't  mind  that  so  much. 
Anyway " 

But  he  was  already  opening  the  door  to  a 
young  woman,  to  whom  he  had  sold  shoes  with 
prodigious  difficulty  only  the  day  before.  He 
passed  her  with  a  nod  and  plunged  down  the 
stairs  to  the  street.  More  than  anything  else  he 
wanted  to  get  away  from  the  sound  of  his  mother's 
high-pitched  American  voice,  which  had  long  pos- 


NEIGHBORS  215 

sessed  the  power  of  goading  him  to  unexpected 
bursts  of  temper.  He  felt  sorry  and  ashamed 
as  he  walked  hurriedly  along  the  dark  street, 
splotched  unevenly  with  wavering  circles  of  light 
from  the  buzzing  arcs.  He  had  meant  to  be 
quite  calm  and  gentle  in  explaining  to  her  how 
impossible  it  had  become  to  work  longer  for 
Trimmer.  In  common  with  other  employees  of 
the  Emporium,  young  Hobbs  had  early  been  made 
acquainted  with  his  employer's  superior  brand  of 
piety.  Only  that  day  Mr.  Trimmer  had  invited 
his  shoe  clerk  to  join  the  choir,  training  for  the 
forthcoming  evangelistic  campaign,  accompanying 
his  request  with  a  card,  upon  which  was  inscribed 
in  bold  black  type  the  question :  "  Are  you  saved  ?  " 

The  young  man  gazed  at  the  card  coldly; 
whereat  Mr.  Trimmer  had  exploded  in  a  sharp: 
"  How  about  it,  Hobbs  ?  You'll  have  to  answer 
that  question  before  the  great  white  throne,  some 
day.  Why  not  now?  " 

The  young  man  narrowed  his  frowning  gaze  to 
a  point  directly  between  his  employer's  eyes. 

"How  about  yourself,  sir?"  he  returned 
sulkily. 

"  I'm  an  elder  in  the  Presbyterian  Church," 
stated  Mr.  Trimmer. 

His  shoe  clerk  received  the  information  with 
British  phlegm. 


216  NEIGHBORS 

"  Is  that  tantamount  to  being  saved,  sir?  "  he 
inquired  coldly. 

"  You're  an  impudent  puppy,  Hobbs !  "  barked 

Elder    Trimmer.      "  I Confound     you — 

T'ii ,» 

1    IX 

"  That  being  the  case,  I  have  the  honor  of 
quitting  your  employ  this  day  week,  sir,"  said 
Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener  Hobbs  instantly. 

He  squared  his  shoulders  and  his  chin,  while  a 
great  joy  surged  over  his  young  soul. 

"  I  can  leave  today,  if  you  like,"  he  added,  ex- 
panding still  further. 

"  You,  Hobbs,  get  busy,"  growled  Mr.  Trim- 
mer. "  I'll  'tend  to  your  case  in  the  office,  when 
I  get  ready." 

The  card,  with  its  pertinent  question,  stared 
up  at  the  young  man  from  the  floor.  He  picked 
it  up,  with  the  inward  conviction  that  he  had  al- 
ready taken  the  first  step  toward  personal  salva- 
tion. .  .  .  And  now  he  had  taken  the  second. 
.  .  .  But  what,  after  all,  was  it  to  be  "  saved  "? 
He  pondered  the  question  as  he  strode  forward 
in  the  semi-darkness.  Of  one  thing  he  was  sure : 
to  be  "  saved  "  one  must  be  free  to  follow  one's 
inner  conviction  of  right. 

Then  all  at  once  his  introverted  thoughts  be- 
came sharply  aware  of  the  outer  world.  Hurry- 
ing toward  him  out  of  the  shadows  was  a  girl's 


NEIGHBORS  217 

slight  figure.  As  she  passed  him,  almost  running, 
he  caught  the  sound  of  a  stifled  sob,  and  recog- 
nized the  young  French  girl,  who  had  been  his 
companion  in  the  chase,  but  a  few  days  before. 

He  turned  and  overtook  her  in  a  long  stride. 

"  Hello !  "  he  accosted  her  with  boyish  rude- 
ness. "  What's  the  trouble?  " 

"  Mossing,"  she  denied. 

"  But  I  heard  you Besides,  you  were  run- 
ning. Did  anything  frighten  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  mad  like  wet  hen,"  she  confessed. 
"  One — two  rude  mans  spik  to  me.  I  am  run 
queek  away  from  such  person." 

"  You  have  no  business  to  be  out  on  the  streets 
alone  at  night,"  he  said  severely.  "  Didn't  you 
know  that?" 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders: 

"  Mees  Malvina  tell  me  if  I  be'ave  mysel'  like 
nice  lady  in  America  I  am  okay.  You  un'erstan' 
okay— ouif  " 

He  frowned. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  be  out  alone,"  he  repeated. 
"  Where  is  your  father?  " 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  her  face  dimpling  with 
mischief. 

"  Me — I  am  mos'  interes'  in  so-so-ciable — my 
fat'er,  'e  ees  not  interes';  aussi,  Mees  Malvina's 
Ma  s'e  have  mal  de  tete,  so  I  be'ave  mysel'  like  a 


218  NEIGHBORS 

lady  an'  come  queek  to  so-ciable  at  ze  parson-age 
— very  nize  person — zat  Missis  Pet-ti-bone.  S'e 
do  me  ze  honeur  to  invite,  so  I  'ave  politeness  to 
come." 

"  Well,  don't  you  do  it  again,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs 
sternly.  "  America  isn't  a  fools'  paradise,  I  don't 
care  what  anybody  says.  It's  every  bit  as  bad  as 
Paris,  or  London — worse,  maybe." 

He  scowled  down  at  the  girl. 

"  Take  my  arm,"  he  commanded.  "  I  shall  es- 
cort you  to  the  sociable,  and  I  shall  bring  you 
home  again." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Me — I  'ave  not  require  beau"  she  said 
sweetly.  "  From  zis  corner  I  run  to  beat  cars, 
queek  I  arrive;  bienf  " 

"  You'll  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  he  contra- 
dicted her  stubbornly.  "  Don't  you  suppose  I 
know?" 

"Don' — you  s'pose — 7 — know?"  she  mocked 
him  airily  from  under  lowered  lashes.  "  Me— 
I  s'ould  worr-y!  " 

"  Where  did  you  pick  up  all  the  slang  what?  " 
he  inquired.  "  Really  it's  not  at  all  the  thing,  you 
know." 

"  Sl-ang — w'at?  Of  kin'ness  explain  to  me  zat 
sl'ang  w'at?  I  not  know  zose  words." 

"  Why — just  now,  you  said  '  I  should  worry '; 


NEIGHBORS  219 

that's  slang — the  worst  kind  of  United  States.  So 
is  '  run  to  beat  the  cars.'  You  should  drop  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  It's  jolly  bad  form.  You  don't 
mind  if  I  tell  you?" 

She  considered  his  question. 

"  You  aire  not  of  America,"  she  told  him 
kindly.  "  An'  of  idiome  I  perceive  you  'ave  not 
es-tudy.  Eet  ees  pitie.  I  teach  you  some  nize 
sl-ang — w'at.  You  like  to  learn  joli — bad — form 
—eh?" 

He  was  staring  straight  before  him  with  British 
solemnity,  unlighted  by  any  alien  gleam  of  humor. 
Then  he  began  a  labored  explanation  in  his 
wooden  French,  by  means  of  which  imperfect 
medium  of  speech  he  contrived  to  make  his  mean- 
ing clear.  By  the  time  they  had  corre  within  sight 
of  the  lighted  windows  of  the  parsonage  Made- 
leine's drooping  face  betrayed  her  complete  dis- 
comfiture. Two  big  tears  trembled  on  her  lashes; 
she  shook  them  off  impatiently. 

"  Spik  to  me  in  Englis',"  she  ordered  him  im- 
periously. "  Zat  so  beautiful  langue  Franqaise — 
you  'ave  keel  eet — you  'ave  murdaire.  Me — I 
s'all  spik  all  times  sl-ang,  like  vary  nize  young 
man,  name  of  Har-ri,  teach  me.  He  is  peach  of 
polite  person — zat  Har-ri;  much  bettaire  zan  you 
I  like  heem." 

Mr.  Hobbs  frowned. 


220  NEIGHBORS 

"Who  is  Harry?"  he  inquired.  "If  he 
teaches  you  slang  he  is  a  bounder,  let  me  tell  you." 

"  I  let  you  tell  me  nossing,"  replied  Madeleine 
with  spirit. 

He  gazed  down  at  her  gloomily. 

"  We're  fools  to  quarrel,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
only  trying  to  help  you ;  but  I  should  have  known 
better." 

All  women — he  was  thinking  with  youthful  bit- 
terness— were  alike  foolish,  vain,  unreasoning.  A 
lump  of  passionate  self-pity  surged  up  in  his 
throat. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  murmured.    "  I  hoped " 

He  did  not  in  the  least  know  what  it  was  that 
he  had  hoped;  but  he  appeared  to  himself  to  be 
gazing  mournfully  at  something  broken  which 
had  been  inconceivably  valuable. 

"  Me — I  ex-cuse,"  murmured  the  girl. 

After  a  moment's  hesitation  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  him  with  the  simplicity  of  a  child. 

He  was  silent,  battling  with  his  vague  thoughts ; 
but  he  took  the  small,  repentant  hand  and  held  it 
fast. 

"You  'ear  me?"  she  asked.  "You  aire  not 
deaf  like  post?  You  aire  sor-ry  for  such  rud' 
spik?  Me,  I  ex-cuse.  Bienf" 

Her  eyes  sparkled  up  at  him  out  of  a  lovely 
tear-mist. 


NEIGHBORS  221 

He  roused  himself.  They  had  by  now  reached 
the  gate  of  the  parsonage. 

"  I'll  not  go  in,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  awfully 
out  of  sorts  all  day  and  that's  the  truth." 

He  appeared  to  have  forgotten  her  hand,  still 
clasped  in  his  own;  but  he  was  in  fact  intensely 
aware  of  it.  Warm  currents  of  hope  and  courage 
appeared  to  be  flowing  from  that  little  hand  to 
the  very  center  and  core  of  his  being. 

"  You  like  bettaire  to  fight  zan  put  shoe  on 
lady,"  surmised  Madeleine,  nodding  her  head 
wisely.  "  Zose  shoe  make  you  feel  mad  like 
hops." 

"  You  are  a  witch  to  guess  it,"  he  cried.  "  Tell 
me,  shall  I  go  to  Canada  and  enlist,  or  shall  I 
make  shrapnel?  I  have  only  one  life." 

She  had  no  need  to  inquire  the  dire  significance 
of  the  word  shrapnel.  She  considered  his  ques- 
tion with  downcast  eyes. 

"  You  'ave  on-li-one — life,"  she  repeated,  "  on- 
li-one ;  but  you  aire  glad  to  give  zat  on-li-one  for 
France — ees  eet  not?  " 

A  great  thrill  went  through  him. 

"  Would  you  care,"  he  asked  huskily,  "  if  I — 
if  I  never  came  back?  " 

Some  one  struck  up  the  Star-Spangled  Banner 
in  the  lighted  parlor  of  the  parsonage;  shrill 
voices  caught  up  the  strain  and  carried  it  forward 


222  NEIGHBORS 

in  a  burst  of  raucous  triumph.  Somehow  the  song 
with  its  shouting  rhythm  appeared  to  intrude  itself 
between  them  like  a  visible  presence. 

"  Eet  ees  chanson  patriotique"  murmured  the 
young  French  girl.  "  Very  loud  zey  sing — zose 
Americaine." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  dully;  "  they  sing  very  loud. 
Are  you  going  in?  " 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  Suddenly  I  feel  alien,"  she  told  him  in  French. 
"  Take  me  home,  please." 

Her  hand  slipped  from  his,  as  they  turned  to  go 
away,  the  sound  of  that  boastful  chorus  gradu- 
ally lessening  on  the  breeze,  till  at  last  only  the 
bolder  peaks  of  song  stood  out  against  the  back- 
ground of  their  troubled  thoughts. 

At  the  gate  of  the  small  brown  house  under 
its  tall  maples,  the  girl  paused:  silhouetted 
against  the  drawn  shade  appeared  the  studious 
head  of  M.  Desaye;  also  his  hand,  holding  a 
book. 

"  He  has  not  missed  you,"  said  Hoddy  Hobbs. 

"  He  sink  I  'ave  attend  so-ciable  wiz  Mees 
Malvina." 

"  And  you  will  tell  him  that  you  have  not?  " 

The  girl  shrugged  her  shoulders,  while  her 
hands  described  an  eloquent  arc. 

"  If  I  tell  monsieur,  my  fat'er,  I  'ave  walk 


NEIGHBORS  223 

wiz  es-trange  young  man?  Wat  you  zink  he 
say  to  me?  Nevaire  again  do  I  spik  to  you,  I 
am  not  permit." 

"  Promise  me  you  will  not  go  out  again  alone 
in  the  evening,"  he  urged,  waiving  the  dilemma. 
"  It  isn't  safe." 

"  But  wiz  you  I  am  safe — n'est-ce-pas?" 

"  Of  course.  But  not  with  any  one  else.  .  .  . 
Promise !  " 

She  ran  lightly  up  the  path. 

"Goo'  night,"  she  breathed  softly;  "one 
mille  t'anks  for  such  nize  plaisir" 

"And  you'll  remember  what  I  said?  You 
must  not  be  on  the  streets  alone  at  night." 

A  jealous  qualm  assailed  him  at  sight  of  her 
hesitation. 

"  You  spoke  of  some  bounder  you  called 
Harry,"  he  growled.  "  You'd  better  tell  your 
father  about  him.  You  shouldn't  know  such 
persons." 

'You  aire  mos'  kind,"  she  syllabled  sweetly; 
"  but  already  my  fat'er  is  acquainted  wiz  M'sieu' 
Le  Noir.  He  ees  one  vary  nize  person.  .  .  . 
I  hitch  his  wagon  to  my  star — oui.  .  .  .  Goo' 
night!" 

He  heard  the  door  close  softly  after  her;  be- 
held M.  Desaye's  silhouette  manifest  surprise, 
then  arrested  attention,  as  before  the  lighted 


224  NEIGHBORS 

curtain  flitted  the  girl's  slim  figure,  her  hands 
fluttering  a  piquant  accompaniment  to  the  words 
he  could  not  hear. 

In  common  with  most  Englishmen  young 
Hobbs  entertained  a  lurking  suspicion  of  Gallic 
veracity. 

"  Of  course  she'll  have  to  tell  him  something," 
he  conceded  to  the  exigency  of  circumstance. 


XX 

THE  end  of  an  arid  August  witnessed  the 
opening  of  the  Merks  Munitions  Works 
in  the  enlarged  and  renovated  buildings 
over  by  the  swamp.  For  months  past  Innisfield 
had  enjoyed  a  vastly  increased  volume  of  busi- 
ness which  the  new  enterprise  had  brought  to 
town,  and  now  a  small  army  of  workers  had 
taken  possession  of  the  barrack-like  buildings 
erected  by  the  Company  in  the  immediate  neigh- 
borhood of  the  plant.  Mrs.  Buckthorn's  pro- 
test, with  its  red-ink  signatures,  had  been  duly 
forwarded  to  the  Company;  its  receipt  had  been 
promptly  acknowledged  by  the  secretary  of  the 
Merks  Munition  Works,  who  stated  in  a  letter 
to  Mrs.  Buckthorn  that  its  contents,  as  noted, 
would  receive  the  earnest  consideration  of  the 
stockholders.  At  a  subsequent  meeting  of  the 
Ladies'  Aid  Society  the  damning  fact  was  dis- 
closed that  a  document  of  quite  a  different  sort 
had  been  sent  to  the  new  concern  signed  by  the 
business  men  of  the  community,  who  had  banded 
together  to  furnish  substantial  inducements  to 

225 


226  NEIGHBORS 

the  Merks  Munition  Works  to  "  locate  in  our 
midst." 

It  was  a  burning,  scarifying  shame,  agreed 
the  ladies.  And  Mrs.  Buckthorn — who  as  the 
head  and  front  of  the  movement,  naturally  took 
the  lead  in  the  spirited  discussion  which  followed 
— spoke  strongly  of  "  Belial,"  and  mentioned  the 
Merks  Company  as  "  an  instrument  in  the  hands 
of  the  Devil,"  which  somehow  mollified  every- 
body's feelings.  It  was  thought  to  be  a  truly 
providential  circumstance  that  the  Rev.  George 
Pilgrim  would  open  his  evangelistic  cam- 
paign on  the  very  day  the  Merks  Munitions 
Company  began  its  operations.  And  when  in 
his  initial  sermon — preached  on  a  hot  August 
night  to  the  fluttering  of  innumerable  fans — the 
Rev.  Pilgrim  alluded  to  the  coincidence  in  pic- 
turesque terms,  the  women  leaned  forward  in 
pleased  attention  still  cooling  themselves  busily. 
Whereat  the  Rev.  Pilgrim  suddenly  shot  up  to 
the  full  height  of  a  substantial  stool,  placed  be- 
hind the  pulpit,  and  leaned  far  out  over  the  desk, 
gesticulating  with  energy: 

"Put  down  those  fans!"  he  shouted.  "I'm 
not  preaching  to  fans — baseball  or  any  other 
kind.  Put  'em  down,  I  say!  Some  of  you 
folks  '11  be  so  hot  in  hell  some  o'  these  days 
you'll  holler  for  a  drop  of  water  to  cool  your 


NEIGHBORS  227 

tongues;  but  you  won't  get  it,  unless  you  repent 
and  be  converted.  .  .  .  And  there  won't  be  any 
fans  there.  Talk  about  munitions  workers!  I 
tell  you  you've  all  got  t'  get  busy — take  off  your 
kid  gloves  an'  get  into  working  clothes!  You 
can't  raise  a  blister  with  the  sort  of  blank  car- 
tridges you've  got  in  this  church.  I  know  your 
sort.  You  can't  fool  me,  and  you  can't  fool  God, 
either.  They  tell  me  there's  a  munitions  factory 
started  just  outside  of  your  dead  old  town. 
There's  nothing  dead  out  there.  Those  men  are 
working  like  devils  in  hell  to  make  stuff  to  kill 
men's  bodies.  .  .  .  But  you — what  have  you  been 
doing  all  these  years  to  save  men's  souls?  I 
counted  fifteen  saloons  in  this  town  today  and 
six  houses  of  ill-fame  and  a  hundred  loafers.  I 
haven't  counted  the  hypocrites  yet,  nor  the  liars, 
nor  the  religious  fakers.  Maybe  you  think  there 
aren't  any.  God  knows  better.  I  shall  know 
better  after  I've  been  here  a  week.  It's  my 
job  to  throw  all  such  stuff  on  the  junk  pile.  And 
I'm  going  to  do  it!  God  can't  work  with  stiffs; 
he  wants  real,  live  folks  that  ain't  afraid  of 
dynamite.  We're  going  to  need  shrapnel  in  this 
town  to  blow  up  the  intrenchments  of  the 
Devil.  And  we  are  going  to  begin  with  the 
ministers  and  the  elders  and  the  deacons 
and  the  church-members — that's  where  we're 


228  NEIGHBORS 

going    to    begin!      And    we're    going    to    begin 
right  now!  " 

The  people  in  the  pews  derived  a  fleeting 
satisfaction  from  the  sight  of  their  pastor's  pale, 
distressed  face.  Mr.  Pettibone  was  pilloried  on 
the  platform  in  full  view  of  his  congregation. 
He  had  read  from  the  Bible  in  his  usual  forensic 
style;  his  succeeding  prayer  had  been  earnest  and 
spiritual,  full  of  pleadings  for  the  divine  mercy 
and  the  leadings  of  the  Spirit.  But  its  phrase- 
ology had  been  formal  and  scriptural,  it  had 
differed  in  no  wise  from  the  sort  of  prayer  he 
had  been  wont  to  offer  from  what  was  popu- 
larly known  as  "  the  sacred  desk  "  for  many  years 
past. 

"Do  look  at  Mis-Jer  Pettibone f"  whispered 
Miss  Electa  Pratt  to  her  neighbor,  Mrs.  Dea- 
coness Buckthorn.  "  An'  Philura,  too.  Ain't 
it  funny?" 

"  I  do  hope  an'  pray  it's  goin'  t'  do  'em 
good,"  responded  Mrs.  Buckthorn  piously. 

But  the  attention  of  the  ladies  was  suddenly 
arrested  by  the  high-explosive  voice  of  the  evan- 
gelist, which  appeared  to  be  aimed  directly  at 
them,  with  the  effect  of  a  bursting  shell. 

'  What  sort  of  folks  do  I  mean  by  hypocrites?" 
he  bellowed.  "You  don't  know — eh?  Well, 
I'll  tell  you  what  God  means  by  a  hypocrite 


NEIGHBORS  229 

And  you  pay  attention  to  what  I  tell  you,  or 
you'll  wish  you  had  some  day:  every  pious  old 
duffer  who  keeps  a  corner  grocery,  but  whose 
weights  and  measures  have  been  fixed  so's  to 
bring  in  a  few  more  measly  pennies  to  his  till 
.  .  .  know  any  of  'em?  Every  woman  who 
teaches  a  Sunday-School  class  on  Sunday  and 
gossips  spitefully  about  her  neighbors  on  Mon- 
day, Tuesday,  and  the  rest  of  the  week  .  .  . 
know  any  such?  .  .  .  Every  girl  who  draws  her 
skirts  aside  from  her  soiled  sisters  on  the  street, 
but  stands  ready  to  sell  herself  to  the  highest 
bidder  who'll  give  her  the  right  to  put  Mrs. 
before  her  name.  .  .  .  Ever  hear  of  such  a 
thing?  ...  I  see  some  of  you  folks  grinning. 
That's  right,  laugh  and  be  dammed!  You 
thought  I  didn't  get  you,  and  you're  just  mean 
enough  to  laugh  when  you  see  the  other  fellow 
hit.  God  understands  your  sort.  You  can't  fool 
him,  not  for  a  minute.  .  .  .  Why,  there's  more  'n 
fifty-seven  sorts  and  varieties  of  hypocrites;  I'm 
not  going  to  waste  your  time  nor  mine  naming 
'em.  But  I'll  tell  you  one  thing,  my  smiling 
friend,  an'  just  you  paste  it  in  your  hat — unless 
you  get  down  to  brass  tacks  and  corner  that 
slippery,  slimy  self — if  you  don't  hunt  out  your 
own  particular  brand  of  hypocrisy  an'  yank  it 
out,  root  an'  branch,  you  can't  count  yourself  in 


23o  NEIGHBORS 

the  kingdom.  .  .  .  Stop  snickering  long  enough 
to  take  in  the  proposition:  right  now  you're  either 
saved  or  lost!  Ever  think  of  that?  There's  no 
rail  fence  between  heaven  and  hell  for  you  to 
roost  on!  .  .  .  Your  minister  never  talked  to 
you  like  this,  you're  thinking.  You're  dead  right. 
He  never  did.  Why?  Because  your  churches 
make  cowards  of  your  settled  pastors.  They 
ain't  one  of  'em  between  here  an'  Frisco  that 
dares  call  his  soul  his  own.  They've  got  the  no- 
tion that  their  bread  and  butter  depends  upon 
pleasing  a  lot  of  whining,  hypocritical  church 
members,  an'  nothing  short  of  an  earthquake  '11 
shake  'em  out  of  it.  How  do  I  know  this?  Well, 
I'll  tell  you;  I  was  the  pastor  of  a  church  in  a 
Western  town  once,  and  there  was  a  rich  brewer 
in  my  congregation.  Used  to  locate  of  a  Sunday 
morning  right  down  in  a  conspicuous  pew  in  the 
center  aisle — a  big,  fat,  pompous-looking  chap. 
He  was  worth  a  million  or  so;  and  he  had  that 
church  right  where  he  wanted  it.  I  hadn't  been 
their  pastor  a  week  before  one  of  my  elders 
warned  me  against  the  subject  of  temperance. 
'  You  got  to  be  careful,  Mr.  Pilgrim,'  says  he ; 
'  'twon't  do  to  antagonize  Mr.  So-an'-so.  Why, 
d'  you  know  he  contributes  annually  to  the  sup- 
port of  this  church  something  like  a  thousand 
dollars!  We  couldn't  afford  to  pay  your  salary 


NEIGHBORS  231 

if  it  wasn't  for  So-an'-so.'  Did  I  see  the  point? 
You  can  bet  I  saw  it,  all  right  I  had  a  wife 
an'  three  kids,  an'  I'd  never  understood  the  story 
of  Eiljah  an'  the  ravens  for  a  cent.  So  I  was 
mighty  careful  to  skate  around  the  extreme  edge 
of  the  booze  question.  Never  went  near  it  for 
more  than  a  year.  Then  one  Sunday  the  spirit 
of  the  Lord  came  upon  me  mightily.  I  looked 
down  from  the  pulpit  an'  I  saw  that  smug  old 
sinner  sitting  there  as  complacent  as  a  stuffed 
boa  constrictor  an'  I  let  out  the  thunders  of  Sinai. 
.  .  .  God  spoke  through  me  that  day  an'  I 
ripped  the  booze  question  up  the  back.  Then  I 
told  'em  the  truth  about  their  measly,  cowardly 
church.  And  how  they'd  tried  to  put  the  muzzle 
on  me,  same  as  they  had  on  all  their  other  min- 
isters. The  Lord  gave  me  utterance.  In  the 
middle  of  it  old  So-an'-so  got  up  an'  stomped 
out  of  the  church ;  an'  at  the  same  minute  I  caught 
a  glimpse  of  my  wife's  white,  scared  face.  But 
I  was  free,  thank  God.  And  I  stayed  so !  " 

During  the  fervid  appeal  to  sinners  and  the 
tumultuous  singing  of  the  closing  hymn — during 
which  a  few  impressionable  girls  and  a  sparse 
sprinkling  of  gray-headed  men  and  women  repre- 
senting the  "  backsliders,"  came  forward  to 
grasp  the  Evangelist's  hand — Mr.  Pettibone's  con- 
trolled features  manifested  little  of  what  he  was 


23  2  NEIGHBORS 

thinking.  He  was  dimly  aware  of  various  zealous 
members  of  his  flock  as  they  approached  to  con- 
gratulate Mr.  Pilgrim  on  the  success  of  his  open- 
ing sermon. 

"  Tell  ye  what,  that's  th'  stuff !  "  wheezed  Dea- 
con Scrimger.  "  Sinners  needs  rousin'.  Give  'em 
hell-fire!  I've  be'n  urgin'  it  ont'  our  paster 
right  along.  But  shucks!  he's  one  o'  them 
meechin'  fellers,  you  was  tellin'  about.  He-he!  " 

"Praise  th'  Lord!  you  ain't  afraid  t'  speak 
right  out,"  said  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  wiping  the  per- 
spiration from  her  massive  countenance.  "  My, 
my!  what  a  bl-essed  season  we're  enterin'  upon! 
.  .  .  I  c'n  tell  you  some  o'  your  r'marks  fairly 
drored  blood.  But  the's  those  in  our  midst  needs 
rousin',  an'  I  guess  you  ain't  very  wide  of  the 
mark  when  you  begin  with  th'  minister." 

Mr.  George  Trimmer  announced  himself  as 
so  favorably  impressed  by  Mr.  Pilgrim's  sermon 
that  he  was  disposed  to  invite  the  evangelist  to 
dinner  on  the  following  day. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  meet  the  members  of 
my  family  around  the  family  altar,"  said  Mr. 
Trimmer  sonorously.  "  A  few  words  from  you 
on  the  subject  of  personal  sanctification  might 
serve  to  cheer  us  as  we  travel  along  life's 
pathway." 

But  Mr.  Pilgrim  shook  his  head.     He  never 


NEIGHBORS  233 

made  social  visits  while  at  work,  he  stated.  Half 
an  hour  later  as  he  turned  to  speak  to  Mr.  Petti- 
bone,  he  appeared  to  notice  for  the  first  time  that 
gentleman's  perturbed  and  pallid  countenance. 

"  See  here,  Pettibone,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim, 
"  you  don't  want  to  take  too  seriously  what  I 
said  to-night.  I  make  it  a  rule  to  begin  with 
heckling  the  ministers,  because  nothing  rouses 
the  people  so  effectively.  Nothing  personal 
about  it;  merely  an  opening  gun.  Wait  an'  see 
me  open  up  on  those  intrenched  old  hypocrites 
tomorrow  night.  I  sized  'em  up  all  right  .  .  . 
By  the  way,  how  long  have  you  preached  here?  " 
'  Twenty  years  too  long,  I  begin  to  think," 
said  Mr.  Pettibone  with  some  bitterness.  "  But 
what  can  I  do?  You  were  young  when  you 
broke  your  chains.  Besides,  not  all  ministers  can 
be  evangelists." 

The  Rev.  Pilgrim  smiled  humorously. 

"No;  but  many  of  them  might  be  better  em- 
ployed than  they  are  now,"  he  said.  "  Mind, 
I  don't  mean  you.  .  .  .  Though  I'm  not  so  sure, 
now  that  I've  had  a  bird's-eye  view  of  your  field." 

Mr.  Pettibone  was  stonily  silent. 

"  The  fact  is,  Pettibone,"  pursued  Mr.  Pil- 
grim, with  waning  enthusiasm,  "  the  church,  as 
a  whole,  could  be  handled  more  effectively  with- 
out settled  pastors.  What  is  needed  is  an  organ- 


234  NEIGHBORS 

ization  of  trained  specialists,  paid  by  the  church 
as  a  whole,  to  do  the  work.  Imagine  one  of 
these  atrophied  old  churches  treated  to  a  course 
in  spiritual  dynamics  by  men  like  me.  Men  not 
dependent  upon  any  one  church  for  salary;  an- 
swerable only  to  God  and  the  central  adminis- 
tration, which  would  have  the  care  of  all  the 
churches.  .  .  .  Get  me?" 

Mr.  Pettibone  drew  his  brows  into  a  frowning 
line. 

"  I  understand  what  you  mean — yes,"  he  as- 
sented coldly;  "but " 

"  It  doesn't  hit  you  very  hard — eh?  Well,  I'm 
not  surprised.  It's  tremendously  revolutionary, 
I  know,  and  would  involve  a  complete  overhaul- 
ing of  those  respectable  refrigerators  we  call 
theological  seminaries;  but  it's  bound  to  come." 

Mr.  Pettibone  strove  to  consider  the  matter 
objectively. 

"  Does  your  scheme  provide  for  the  usual  pas- 
toral duties,  and — er — such  special  sacraments  as 
burials,  weddings,  and  sick-bed  ministrations?" 
he  propounded  mildly.  "  It  would  seem  to  me 
that  in  severing  the  bond  between  pastor  and 
people  much  would  be  lost." 

But  Mr.  Pilgrim  was  experiencing  the  inevita- 
ble reaction,  due  half  an  hour  after  preaching. 
His  versatile  mind  was  now  occupied  with 


NEIGHBORS  235 

thoughts  of  the  hot  bath,  supper,  and  bed  await- 
ing him  at  his  hotel.  He  had  already  set  down 
Mr.  Pettibone  as  one  of  a  negligible  type  to  be 
eliminated  from  his  future  scheme  of  things. 
More  particularly  he  had  disliked  Mr.  Pettibone's 
timid  manner  of  addressing  the  Deity.  The  Rev. 
George  Pilgrim  spoke  loudly  and  familiarly  to 
his  God,  using  the  vernacular  of  the  streets.  Peo- 
ple sat  up  and  listened  to  that  sort  of  prayer. 
It  was  original,  snappy,  full  of  piquant  surprises 
and  racy  epithets.  .  .  .  Pettibone,  he  saw 
plainly,  was  a  hopeless  duffer.  No  use  of  wast- 
ing energy  in  argument  with  Pettibone. 

"  Good  night,"  said  Mr.  Pilgrim  definitely. 

"  H'm — er,  I  should  be  glad  to  call  on  you  to- 
morrow morning,"  said  Mr.  Pettibone,  "  for  the 
purpose  of  conferring " 

"  At  eleven-thirty,"  snapped  the  evangelist, 
"  not  a  minute  sooner.  ..." 

His  wife,  in  her  blue  dressing  gown  and  pom- 
ponned  slippers,  was  waiting  for  him  in  the  study 
when  the  minister  let  himself  into  the  parsonage 
half  an  hour  later. 

"  I  thought  you  might  be  hungry,"  she  ex- 
cused herself.  "  And  the  baby  waked  up  and 
cried.  So  I  wasn't " 

"  Better  go  to  bed,  my  dear,"  he  advised.  "  I 
— I'm  not  at  all  hungry." 


236  NEIGHBORS 

His  eyes  wandered  toward  his  books.  She 
stood  waiting  expectantly,  her  hand  on  the  knob. 

"  I  think  I'll  read  awhile,"  he  said  presently. 
"  I'm  not — er — sleepy." 

She  turned  and  came  toward  him  swiftly,  im- 
pulsively. With  a  spent  breath  he  opened  his 
arms  to  receive  her.  For  a  long  minute  neither 
spoke;  then  she  stood  on  tiptoe  to  kiss  his  pale 
face. 

"  Silas,"  she  said.    "Silas!" 

He  patted  her  brown  head  awkwardly. 

"  Yes,  my  dear;  I  know — I  know.  .  .  .  Better 
not  say  it." 

"  But,  Silas,  that  man " 

He  led  her  unresisting  to  the  door  and  gently 
closed  it  between  them. 


XXI 

"TTARRY,"    said    Mrs.    Schwartz,    "why 
didn't    you    go    to    the    meeting    last 

T  A   night?" 

Mrs.  Schwartz's  rosy  face  wore  a  slightly  anx- 
ious expression,  as  she  gazed  across  the  break- 
fast table  at  her  son,  pleasantly  engaged  on  his 
fourth  muffin. 

"  I  didn't  see  you  in  the  gallery,  or  anywhere," 
she  concluded,  passing  him  the  butter. 

"  I  didn't  say  I  was  going,"  said  Harry, 
watching  a  lump  of  butter  sink  luxuriously  out 
of  sight  in  the  steaming  interior  of  his  muffin. 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

The  young  man  gazed  across  the  table  at  his 
pretty  little  mother. 

"  Well,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  did  have  a  hazy 
notion  of  stopping  at  the  church.  I've  been  prac- 
ticing up  with  the  choir,  you  know." 

'  Yes,  I  know  you  have,"  she  prompted  him, 
her  blue  eyes  searching  his  face.  "  It  was  a  won- 
derful sermon;  I  never  heard  anything  like  it." 

"  Uh-huh,"  murmured  her  son,  folding  his  nap- 
kin with  unnatural  care. 

237 


238  NEIGHBORS 

She  followed  him  into  the  hall. 

"Harry!" 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  I  heard  something  that  worried  me  terribly 
last  night." 

"You  did?" 

He  took  down  his  straw  hat  from  the  rack  and 
examined  it  with  frowning  intentness. 

"  You  don't  want  to  let  that  sort  of  thing  worry 
you,  mother,"  he  said.  '  There's  a  lot  of  old 
tabbies  around  this  town,  who  haven't  anything 
else  to  do  except " 

"  Yes,  I  know.  But  this  was Well,  never 

mind  who  it  was — I  heard  you've  been  seen  talk- 
ing to  that  French  girl,  and  that  she " 

"  Well,  what  of  it?  What's  the  harm  in  speak- 
ing to  a  pretty  girl?  " 

"Oh,  Harry!" 

"What's  the  matter?"  he  repeated.  "You 
knew  I  was  taking  French  lessons  with  her  father. 
I  told  you  so,  a  long  time  ago." 

He  threw  his  hat  up  in  the  air  and  caught  it 
twice;  the  third  time  it  struck  the  gas  fixture  with 
a  jingling  sound. 

"  Please  listen,  Harry.  .  .  .  You  make  me 
nervous,  throwing  that  hat  around.  You'll  break 
the  globe." 

"  If  I  do,  I'll  buy  another." 


NEIGHBORS  239 

There  was  a  boastful  note  in  her  son's  voice 
which  did  not  escape  Mrs.  Schwartz. 

"  Then  it's  true,"  she  decided,  clasping  her 
hands.  "  Oh,  dear!  and  I  said  I  knew  it  wasn't. 
I  said  you  wouldn't  think  of  doing  such  a 
thing." 

"As  what?" 

"  Why,  as — marrying  a  foreigner." 

Harry  burst  into  uproarious  laughter. 

"  That's  what  you  did,  mother,"  he  accused 
her.  "  You're  a  great  one  to  talk  about  marry- 
ing a  foreigner;  now,  aren't  you?  " 

"  Your  father  was  born  in  America,"  she  re- 
minded him  with  dignity.  "  And  besides,  that's 
different:  a  French  girl 

"  Now,  see  here,  mother,"  he  said  gravely:  "  in 
the  first  place,  I  don't  know  as  I  have  the  ghost 
of  a  show  with  Madeleine " 

His  mother  made  an  inarticulate  sound,  expres- 
sive of  extreme  unbelief. 

"  And  even  if  she — even  if  I — her  father 
wouldn't  look  at  me.  He  hates  everything  Ger- 
man like  poison.  .  .  .  He  thinks  I'm  French." 

Harry  smiled  rather  sheepishly  under  his 
mother's  incredulous  stare. 

"He  thinks  you  are  French!"  she  exclaimed, 
horror  stricken.  "  What  would  your  grandfather 
say?" 


24o  NEIGHBORS 

Rather  hazily  he  sketched  the  circumstances 
which  had  resulted  in  the  small  deception. 

"  What  a  thing  for  a  girl  to  do !  "  she 
commented.  "  I  should  never  have  thought 
of  it" 

"  Of  course  not,"  agreed  Harry.  "  You  would 
never  have  thought  of  it.  ...  Pretty  clever — 
eh?  .  .  .  I've  meant  to  explain,  you  know,  all 
along.  But  hearing  the  old  duffer  rave  about  the 
war — our  brave  compatriots,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing — I — er — haven't  done  it — yet.  Of  course 
sometime  or  other " 

"  It's  your  duty  to  tell  him  right  away,  Harry," 
his  mother  said  solemnly.  "  I'm  afraid  Mr.  Pil- 
grim would  say  you  were  a  regular  hypocrite. 
You  should  have  heard  what  he  said  about  hypo- 
crites, Harry.  It  was  awful!  " 

Harry  tossed  up  his  hat  once  more.  Then  sud- 
denly he  threw  his  arms  around  his  mother  and 
stooped  his  tall  head  to  her  neck. 

"  Say,  ma,"  he  whispered  coaxingly. 

"Well,  Harry?" 

"  I  wish  you — I  wish  you'd  go  an'  see  Made- 
leine. She's  the  sweetest,  dearest — but  I'm  afraid 
she's  way  over  my  head." 

Mrs.  Schwartz  held  her  boy  jealously  fast. 

4  You're  too  young  to  be  thinking  of  such 
things,  Harry.  It's  downright  foolish." 


NEIGHBORS  241 

"  I'm  as  old  as  father  was  when  you  were 
married." 

"No!  I  didn't  realize  it.  ...  Dear,  dear, 
how  the  time  does  fly!  It  seems  only  yesterday 
that  you  were  running  around  in  dresses." 

"  And  you'll  go  an'  see  her,  ma?  " 

Mrs.  Schwartz  drew  a  deep  sigh,  while  she 
patted  her  boy's  crisp,  curling  hair. 

"  I  suppose  I'll  have  to,  if  you •  But  if  her 

father " 

He  kissed  her  hurriedly. 

"Thanks,  mother;  you're  the  best  ever.  .  .  . 
Good-by !  Don't  worry !  " 

Harry  walked  very  fast  till  he  was  well  out  of 
sight  of  his  mother's  tearful  gaze;  then  he  lapsed 
into  frowning  thought  which  at  last  halted  his 
steps  in  front  of  an  inconspicuous  building  on  the 
main  street.  A  flight  of  dusty  stairs  confronted 
him,  when  he  opened  the  door.  He  mounted 
them,  still  slowly.  A  door  at  the  top  of  the  stair 
stood  ajar  and  a  subdued  clicking  of  typewriters 
filled  the  corridor. 

"  No,  sir,"  he  heard  some  one  say,  in  what 
might  be  termed  a  dry,  business  voice;  "  I  don't 
doubt  what  you  tell  me  is  O.K.;  but  y'  see  we 
don't  employ  Germans  at  the  plant — hyphenates, 
or  any  other  sort.  Our  Canada  folks  are  firm 
on  that  point." 


242  NEIGHBORS 

A  man,  his  hat  pulled  low  on  his  forehead, 
plunged  angrily  down  the  stair.  Harry  stood 
aside  to  let  him  pass;  then  he  entered  the  door 
purporting  to  usher  one  into  the  temporary  offices 
of  the  Merks  Munitions  Company.  The  man 
with  the  business  voice  had  not  yet  resumed  his 
place  behind  his  desk  when  Harry  entered.  He 
glanced  sharply  at  the  newcomer. 

"  Right-o !  we're  advertising  for  a  few  more 
men,"  he  said  in  answer  to  Harry's  question. 

With  the  information  he  slid  an  application 
blank  across  the  flat-top  desk. 

"  Fill  it  in,"  he  commanded  crisply.  "  No 
use  wasting  your  time,  or  ours." 

His  own  time,  it  appeared,  could  be  used  to  ad- 
vantage in  whistling  "  Tipperary  "  between  closed 
teeth.  Harry  vaguely  recognized  the  tune  as  he 
examined  the  card;  it  contained  spaces  for  the 
applicant's  name,  age,  nationality,  and  other  data 
supposedly  pertinent  to  the  manufacture  of 
ammunition. 

"What's  matter?"  asked  the  clerk  jauntily; 
"  can't  you  read  an'  write?  " 

Harry's  ears  turned  scarlet;  he  wrote  with 
fierce  little  jabs  and  dashes,  and  in  scowling  si- 
lence flipped  the  card  into  the  hand  waiting  to 
receive  it. 

The    clerk   nonchalantly   narrowed    his    gaze 


NEIGHBORS  243 

upon  it,  shifting  his  whistle  to  the  corner  of  his 
mouth. 

"  Hen-rye  La-Nore — that  what  you  call  your- 
self— eh?  Foreign,  ain't  it?" 

"  I'm  American  born,"  said  Harry  thickly. 

"  Jus'  so.  But  we're  bein'  kind  of  particular 
what  brand.  .  ,.  .  Well,  s'  long  as  it  ain't  Ger- 
man. .  .  .  An'  you  want  to  be  a  guard?  Uh- 
huh.  .  .  .  Well,  now  you  take  this  card  out  to 
the  plant,  main  office,  an'  ask  for  Mr.  Mills.  I've 
O.K'd  it.  ...  See!" 

A  man  with  indignant  gray  eyes  stood  near  the 
door,  in  an  attitude  of  surprised  attention,  as 
Harry,  still  red  and  perspiring  visibly,  passed  out, 
his  card  clutched  tight  in  his  hand.  The  two  ex- 
changed swift  glances  of  appraisal. 

"Where  have  I  seen  that  chap?"  Harry  was 
asking  himself,  as  he  hurried  away,  his  hat 
jammed  low  on  his  sweating  forehead. 

He  wanted  something  to  divert  his  attention 
from  too  close  a  contemplation  of  himself.  At 
the  back  of  his  mind  there  already  arose  a  clamor 
of  protest  demanding  his  swift  return  to  the  re- 
cruiting office  of  the  Merks  Munitions  Plant. 

'  What !  go  back  there  and  own  up  to  the  name 
of  Schwartz,  and  let  that  bloomin'  jay  kick  me 
down  stairs?"  he  asked  his  boyish  conscience, 
which  had  received  much  coddling  at  the  hands 


244  NEIGHBORS 

of  his  mother  and  was  therefore  alive  and  kick- 
ing. ..."  What's  the  harm  in  calling  myself 
Le  Noir,  I'd  like  to  know?  Means  the  same  as 
Schwartz.  Both  of  'em  mean  Black.  Henry 
Black — that's  my  name,  b'rights.  By  George, 
I've  a  good  mind  to  change  to  Henry  Black, 
sometime  or  other!  Sick  of  being  a  hyphenate." 

An  hour  later  the  good  French  name  Henri  Le 
Noir  was  set  down  on  the  pay  roll  of  the  Merks 
concern,  at  a  weekly  wage  which  would  soon  finish 
paying  for  Harry's  building  lot.  In  imagination 
he  already  beheld  there  a  half-shingled  house  with 
dormers  and  a  red  roof.  The  thought  of  Made- 
leine as  the  mistress  of  this  modest  air  castle  gave 
the  knockout  blow  to  conscience,  which  finally 
ceased  its  feeble  protests  altogether  amid  the  en- 
grossing industries  of  the  munitions  plant. 

Late  that  afternoon  Harry  again  encountered 
the  young  fellow  he  had  seen  in  the  town  office. 
He  was  engaged  in  checking  up  the  finished  prod- 
uct, which  had  already  begun  to  be  assembled  in 
vast  piles  and  serried  ranks  in  the  shipping  ware- 
house. Harry,  unused  to  thoughts  of  bloodshed 
and  destruction,  felt  a  slight  shudder  stiffening  his 
blond  hair  at  sight  of  those  long  rows  of  mur- 
derous shells;  but  it  appeared  quite  otherwise 
with  the  stranger:  the  look  of  anger  and  vague 
disgust,  which  Harry  had  noted  in  the  morning, 


NEIGHBORS  245 

had  given  place  to  one  of  rapt  enthusiasm.  So 
intent  was  the  young  man  upon  his  work  that  he 
did  not  glance  up  as  Harry  passed. 

"  That  fellow's  name  is  Hobbs,"  said  the  man 
who  had  been  deputed  to  coach  Harry  in  his 
new  duties.  "  You'll  find  him  here  every  day 
after  noon.  Mornings  he  works  in  the  filling 
shed." 

Harry  turned  for  a  second  look  at  the  man 
who  was  engaged  in  counting  the  day's  product 
with  such  an  air  of  triumph;  and  once  more  that 
vague  shiver  passed  along  his  spine.  .  .  . 

His  mother  met  him  at  the  door  when  he  came 
home  that  night,  tired  and  dusty. 

"  Your  grandfather  is  here,"  she  said,  in  the 
suppressed  voice  she  always  used  in  announcing 
the  large  authoritative  presence  in  the  splint-bot- 
tomed chair.  ..."  And,  Harry,  your  father 
says  you  haven't  been  at  the  Building  Loan  Of- 
fice for  two  days.  Nathan  Scrimger  came  over 
to  the  shop  to  see  if  you  were  sick." 

Harry  scowled. 

"  I've  quit  the  Building  Loan,"  he  said  sul- 
lenly. "  Never  get  anywhere  working  for  that 
bunch.  .  .  .  Got  another  job  with  a  live  con- 
cern." 

"  Why,  Harry,"  exclaimed  his  mother.  "  Why, 
Harry!" 


246  NEIGHBORS 

He  edged  past  her  and  raced  up  the  back  stairs 
to  his  room,  uneasily  aware  of  his  grandfather's 
booming  voice  in  the  parlor.  Should  he  face 
the  old  man  and  tell  him  what  he  had 
done?  Some  sort  of  explanation  would  be 
required  of  him,  he  knew,  probably  at  the  supper 
table. 

"  It's  none  of  grandfather's  business,"  he  told 
himself,  as  he  strove  to  drown  the  dominant 
German  gutturals  in  a  rush  of  water  from  the 
faucet.  "  I've  a  right  to  earn  my  living  any  darn 
way  I  like:  I'm  an  American!" 

He  could  hear  his  mother  stepping  briskly 
about  the  kitchen,  while  the  tantalizing  odors  of 
freshly  baked  biscuit  and  broiling  ham  floated  up 
the  open  stairway.  Harry  flung  his  six  feet  of 
sturdy  length  on  the  banister  and  slid  noiselessly 
down. 

"Supper  most  ready?"  he  inquired  in 
a  whisper.  "  Gee !  but  that  ham  smells 
good!" 

"  Harry,"  said  Mrs.  Schwartz  nervously,  "  I 
wouldn't  get  to  arguing  with  your  grandfather 
tonight,  if  I  were  you.  And,  Harry " 

"  Yes,  mother." 

"  I  called  your  father  out  to  the  kitchen  a 
minute  ago  to  pry  the  top  off  a  jar  of  pickles, 
and  I  told  him  not  to  mention  your  leaving  the 


NEIGHBORS  247 

Building    Loan,    at    supper.     You    can    explain 
afterward." 

A  conscience-stricken  blush  mounted  to  Harry's 
forehead. 

"  Mother,"  he  said  fervently,   "  you're  some 
brick!" 


XXII 

"  T  GUESS,  Mad'lane,  you'd  better  go  t'  th' 
r'vival  meetin'  t'night  along  with  Ma  an' 
me,"  said  Miss  Malvina  to  her  young 
neighbor.  "  I  ast  your  Pa  t'  go,  an'  he  says  he 
don't  want  t'  be  revived  till  after  th'  war;  'n' 
unless  the  Germans  give  'em  back  Alsace  he  ain't 
never  a-goin'  t'  be.  *  That's  downright  wicked,' 
I  says,  '  t'  talk  that-a-way.'  I  kind  o'  felt  it  my 
dooty  t'  speak  right  out.  '  Your  immortal  soul,' 
I  says,  '  has  got  t'  be  saved,  no  matter  how  th' 
war  turns  out.'  Jes'  like  that  I  says  t'  'im. 
Then  I  shrugs  m'  shoulders  an'  says,  '  may-nam- 
port,'  meanin'  in  your  lingo :  '  but  I  don'  know  's 
it's  any  o'  my  fun'ral.'  I  thought  I  sh'd  die 
a-laffin'  t'  see  his  face.  *  Why,  Mees  Malvina,' 
says  he,  '  I  hope  it  would  matter  much  to  you.' 
.  .  .  T'  think  o'  him  understandin'  my  French !  " 
"  You  aire  sure  progress  fine  an'  dandy,"  said 
Madeleine  complacently.  "  Me — aussi,  I  spik 
Englis'  easy  as  log  from  roll." 

Miss    Malvina    bent    double    with    cackling 
laughter. 

'That  ain't  right,"  she  corrected  her  pupil: 

248 


NEIGHBORS  249 

"  y'  want  t'  say  '  easy  's  rollin'  off  a  log.'  .  .  . 
Uh-huh !  .  .  .  But  I  guess  b'  rights  I'd  ought  to 
be  more  solemn-like,  seein'  we're  goin'  t'  meetin' 
t'night.  Me  an'  Ma  '11  call  f'r  you  in  plenty  o' 
time.  They  say  seats  is  skurse  after  eight 
o'clock." 

"As  teeth  of  hen?"  inquired  Madeleine. 

"  Oh,  y'  don't  always  hev  t'  put  in  th'  hen, 
ev'ry  time  you  speak  o'  things  bein'  skurse/' 
replied  Miss  Malvina  kindly,  "  tho'  th'  ain't 
anythin'  any  skurser  'an  hen's  teeth,  fur's  I 
know." 

The  little  dressmaker  had  composed  her  face 
to  a  proper  seriousness  by  the  time  she  and  Ma 
Bennett  arrived  at  M.  Desaye's  door  that  even- 
ing. The  Frenchman,  in  the  easy  dishabille  of 
his  frogged  velvet  coat,  received  them  with  his 
wonted  ceremonious  politeness. 

"  Ah-h-h !  Madame!  bon  soir!  an'  Mees  Mal- 
vina !  Honor  me  by  entering  my  'umble  'ome. 
Zat  ees  very  nize  word — 'ome.  You  have  made 
it  'ome  by  entering,  mes  chere  amis." 

Mrs.  Bennett  submitted  awkwardly  to  having 
her  hand  kissed;  then,  seated  in  a  large  crimson- 
cushioned  fauteuil,  she  gazed  through  her  far- 
sighted  specs  at  the  strange  metamorphosis  of 
Miss  Philura  Rice's  front  parlor.  .  .  .  The  rugs, 
the  pictures,  the  dim  splendors  of  leather-bound 


NEIGHBORS 

books,  the  curious  bits  of  faience  afforded  the 
old  lady  a  singular  satisfaction.  As  she  had 
frequently  expressed  it  to  her  daughter:  "I  c'd 
set  all  day  a-lookin'  at  the  mess  o'  things  in  that 
house." 

On  the  present  occasion,  absorbed  in  vague 
contemplation  of  her  surroundings,  she  paid 
small  heed  to  the  conversation  between  her 
daughter  and  M.  Desaye.  Madeleine,  she  un- 
derstood, had  been  late  in  clearing  away  the 
supper  dishes ;  she  would  be  down  toute-de-suite — 
a  phrase  Ma  Bennett  interpreted  uncertainly  as 
referring  to  Madeleine's  youthful  beauty. 

"  'S  fur's  Ma's  concerned,"  Miss  Malvina  was 
saying,  "  she  don't  need  no  revivin'.  The'  never 
was  a  piouser  woman  'an  Ma  Bennett  in  this  'ere 
vale  o'  tears.  She's  went  t'  church  reg'lar,  rain 
er  shine,  for  more  'n  fifty  years.  'N'  as  fer 
fun'rals  'n'  like  that,  th'  couldn't  nobody  be  more 
faithful,  always  settin'  in  th'  front  row  b'  th' 
remains.  I  r'member  bein'  took  t'  fun'rals  when 
I  wa'n't  no  bigger  'n  a  grasshopper.  But  Ma  ust 
t'  say  it  never  took  th'  laugh  out  o'  me.  ...  I 
remember  tee-heein'  right  out  at  oF  Mis'  Bas- 
com's  fun'ral,  'n'  Ma  hed  t'  carry  me  out.  She 
warmed  me  good  f'r  that,  I  c'n  tell  you." 

Miss  Malvina  was  appropriately  clad  in  her 
Sunday  best  Henrietta-cloth  dress,  with  the  pur- 


NEIGHBORS  251 

plish  black  of  her  best  hair-front  carefully  dis- 
posed under  the  brim  of  a  black  straw  hat 
adorned  with  jaded  flowers.  M.  Desaye  secretly 
deplored  his  neighbor's  costume,  more  particu- 
larly the  hair-front,  which  concealed,  as  he  knew, 
snow-white  locks  of  persistent  curliness.  He  lis- 
tened attentively  to  Miss  Malvina's  remarks, 
making  mental  notes  of  several  unfamiliar  idi- 
oms to  be  looked  up  later.  At  present  he  had 
in  mind  an  inquiry,  which  related  itself  to  Miss 
Malvina's  bright  eyes  and  piquant  gestures. 

"You  have  lived  always  in  America?"  he 
asked.  "You  are  a  native — n'est-ce-pas?" 

'  Well,  I  don'  know  as  I  ever  thought  o' 
m'self  's  a  native;  they're  mostly  colored,  like 
Injuns  an'  such — but  I  was  born  right  in  this  'ere 
town.  So  was  Ma.  We're  reel  ol'  timers — any- 
way, th'  Bennetts  was;  'n'  I  guess  th'  D'boises 
was,  too.  That's  Ma's  folks;  Ma's  name  was 
Henrietta  D'boise  b'fore  she  married  Pa 
Bennett." 

Miss  Malvina  pronounced  the  maternal  cog- 
nomen D'boise,  with  a  strong  accent  on  the  final 
syllable.  She  was  astonished  at  the  effect  of  her 
words  upon  her  listener. 

"  Madame,  your  mother,  was  called  Henri- 
ette?"  he  cried.  "  Eet  ees  Frangaise!  Epeler — 
er — s-s-pell  for  me  zat  Dubois.  Eet  ees  Dubois 


252  NEIGHBORS 

— eh?  Henriette  Duboisf  Allans!  .  .  .  Now 
I  un'erstan'.  Enfin,  I  have  perceive!  " 

Miss  Malvina  stared. 

"  D'boise  is  spelled  D-u-b-o-i-s,"  she  said;  but 
it  wa'n't  never  pronounced  Du-bwah,  'at  I  know 
of.  ...  Ma !  Listen  here,  Ma !  " 

"  Yes,  Malviny,"  murmured  the  old  lady, 
roused  from  a  rapt  contemplation  of  a  certain 
carved  tabouret  covered  with  faded  tapestry. 

"Wa'n't  your  folks  reel  Americans?"  de- 
manded her  daughter.  "  The'  wa'n't  none  of 
'em  fur'n  born — was  they?" 

Mrs.  Bennett's  dim  eyes  brightened  to  some- 
thing like  animation. 

"  I  r'member  hearin'  my  father  say  his  folks 
come  f'om  th'  other  side,"  she  said.  "  I  guess 
pa  was  some  fur'n:  I  know  he  ust  t'  git  all  het 
up  b'cause  folks  never  spoke  his  name  right. 
But  us  childern  didn't  mind;  'n'  after  us  girls 
got  married  we  never  thought  no  more  about 
it.  The'  wa'n't  no  reason  t'  be  p'tic'lar  whether 
it  was  D'boise  er  Du-bawh — as  Pa  ust  t' 
call  it" 

M.  Desaye  arose  with  an  air  of  solemnity;  he 
bowed  low  before  Ma  Bennett,  heels  together, 
hand  upon  his  heart. 

"  Madame  Henriette  Dubois  Bennett,"  said 
he — with  magnificent  disdain  for  the  uncomprom- 


NEIGHBORS  253 

ising  Bennett — "  mes  felicitations:  you  aire  of  my 
countrie  by  extraction!" 

Ma  Bennett  emitted  a  little  cackle  of  remon- 
strance at  the  touch  of  his  bearded  lips  upon  her 
forehead.  But  by  virtue  of  that  chaste  salute 
she  had  become  forever  enshrined,  as  it  were,  in 
those  inner  fastnesses  of  M.  Desaye's  affections 
reserved  for  compatriots  alone.  To  Miss 
Malvina  he  said  nothing,  being  apparently 
absorbed  in  a  contemplation  of  Ma's  faded 
lineaments. 

"  Per  th'  land  sake ! "  exclaimed  the  little 
dressmaker,  with  a  sort  of  awe,  "  t'  think  o'  Ma 
Bennett  bein'  French!" 

M.  Desaye  turned  quickly  around. 

"  Ma  chere  amie,"  he  murmured,  "  you  aire 
also  one  of  us.  ...  Ah-h-h !  I  knew  it :  not  for 
nossing  zose  gesture — zose  expression  piquante. 
You  aire  Francaise — all  Frangaise!  " 

"  Well,  I  don'  know  es  I  care  ef  I  be !  "  chir- 
ruped Miss  Malvina  joyously.  "  A  body  might 
be  a  sight  worse  off,  I  guess.  .  .  .  But  what  in 
creation  '11  Mis'  Deaconess  Buckthorn  say?" 

Madeleine,  who  had  entered  the  room  unno- 
ticed, observed  the  excited  demeanor  of  the  three 
elderly  persons,  with  the  surprised  compassion  of 
youth.  To  be  old,  to  wear  a  false  front  and  an 
ugly  hat  seemed  to  her  incompatible  with  jubi- 


254  NEIGHBORS 

lance  of  any  sort.  She  betrayed  little  surprise 
when  informed  of  the  momentous  discovery. 

"  C'est  le  meme  chose/'  she  murmured,  as  she 
kissed  Miss  Malvina's  cheek  and  spread  a  grace- 
ful courtesy  before  Madame  Henriette  Dubois 
Bennett,  to  whom  her  father  presented  her  with 
empressement.  "  No  more  I  can  love  you  zan  be- 
fore. .  .  .  But  'f  my  fat'er  e'  love  you  bettaire 
zen  I  am  'appy  as  tide  at  'igh  clam!  " 

"You'll  kill  me  yit,  Mad'lane!"  vowed  Miss 
Malvina.  '  Your  talk  's  a  reg'lar  hasty  puddin'. 
...  But  sakes  alive!  We  won't  git  no  seats  ef 
we  don't  make  tracks  f'r  th'  church." 


XXIII 

MISS  BENNETT'S  apprehensions  were 
well  founded:  the  church  was  already 
filled  to  overflowing  when  they  arrived. 
But  Mr.  Henry  Pratt,  in  the  role  of  a  zealous 
usher,  thought  there  might  be  a  few  choice  seats 
in  the  choir.  He  had  been  instructed,  he  told 
Miss  Malvina,  with  a  secular  chuckle,  to  fill  such 
vacancies  with  sinners,  on  the  stroke  of  eight. 

"Go  'long  with  you,  Henery  Pratt!"  chided 
Miss  Malvina  indignantly.  "  Ain't  you  'shamed 
t'  talk  that-a-way  t'  Ma  Bennett  an'  me?  .  .  . 
Ef  we're  sinners  I'd  like  t'  know  what  in  crea- 
tion you  be?  " 

There  was  a  loud  chorus  in  progress,  goaded  to 
quickened  repetition  by  the  energetic  young  man 
occupying  a  conspicuous  soap-box  between  choir 
and  congregation. 

"  That's  th'  evangelist's  reg'lar  singer,  Jim 
Baldwin,"  Miss  Malvina  explained  to  Madeleine, 
as  the  three  ladies  followed  Mr.  Pratt's  brisk 
lead  to  the  platform.  "  They  say  he  ust  t'  be  a 
street-car  c'nductor.  I  guess  you  c'd  hear  him 

255 


256  NEIGHBORS 

holler  from  here  t'  Boston.  .  .  .  He's  jes'  grand 
f'r  a  r'vival." 

Madeleine  was  still  very  much  in  the  dark  as 
to  the  nature  and  purpose  of  a  "  revival,"  when 
she  took  her  seat  next  to  a  pink-cheeked  girl 
who  was  singing  loudly  out  of  a  paper-covered 
song-book.  The  erstwhile  street-car  conductor's 
stentorian  tones  penetrated  the  tide  of  song: 
"  Come !  wake  up  there !  Can't  you  put  some 
pep  int'  your  singing?  .  .  .  Now,  then,  open  up 
everybody,  an'  let  her  fly  t'  th'  glory  o'  God !  " 

"  Better  pretend  t'  sing,  even  if  you  can't," 
whispered  the  pink-cheeked  girl.  "  Baldy  won't 
stan'  for  it  t'  see  folks  sitting  in  the  front  row 
with  their  mouths  shut." 

But  Madeleine  timidly  shook  her  head:  she 
was  wishing  she  had  not  come  to  the  revival  with 
Miss  Malvina  and  Ma  Bennett,  who,  looking 
unnaturally  pale  and  solemn  in  their  black  cloth- 
ing, were  seated  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  plat- 
form. But  she  was  temporarily  relieved  from 
apprehension  when  the  loud  young  man  got  down 
from  his  soap-box  and  the  evangelist  rose  to 
speak.  For  a  while  Madeleine  strove  to  under- 
stand what  the  man  was  saying  in  his  monoto- 
nously loud,  hoarse  voice.  She  thought  he  must 
be  very  angry  with  every  one  present,  for  he 
shook  his  fists,  banged  the  books  on  the  desk, 


NEIGHBORS  257 

and  when  in  a  climax  of  fiery  denunciation  he 
climbed  nimbly  to  the  very  top  of  the  pulpit,  she 
involuntarily  clutched  at  the  pink-cheeked  girl. 

"  Wat  ees  mattaire  wi'  zat  man?  "  she  asked. 
"  Me — I  sink  I  am  alarm." 

"  Sh !  "  warned  the  other  girl,  conscious  of  the 
watchful  regard  of  Mr.  Baldwin. 

Madeleine's  startled  eyes  were  gradually  find- 
ing friends  in  the  congregation;  in  a  pew  near 
the  front  sat  their  proprietaire,  Mrs.  Pettibone. 
She  did  not  appear  alarmed,  the  girl  perceived, 
though  her  face  wore  the  tense,  strained  expres- 
sion which  seemed  to  have  communicated  itself 
from  the  speaker  to  his  audience.  Madeleine 
had  vaguely  understood  from  Miss  Malvina's 
previous  explanations  that  the  revival  was  a 
special  sort  of  religion.  It  was  difficult,  she 
thought,  to  understand  religion,  and  more  par- 
ticularly the  religion  of  America.  In  France  it 
appeared  to  associate  itself  with  shadowy,  peace- 
ful old  churches,  with  sunshine  mellowed  by  im- 
memorial stained  glass  streaming  in  across  kneel- 
ing worshipers,  and  with  the  snowy  veils  and 
wreaths  of  one's  first  communion.  In  the  world  it 
meant  doing  small  deeds  of  kindness  and  keeping 
the  heart  pure  from  guile. 

Madeleine's  wondering  gaze  roved  from  one 
troubled,  intent  face  to  another,  till  at  last  it 


258  NEIGHBORS 

rested  with  pleased  surprise  upon  Harry 
Schwartz,  sitting  next  to  the  rail  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  platform.  A  faint  blush  stole  into 
the  girl's  cheeks  as  she  passed  in  swift  review 
their  meeting  of  yesterday.  "  I  think  of  nothing 
but  you,  all  day  long,"  Harry  had  said,  as  he 
held  her  hand  at  parting.  And  Madeleine  some- 
how understood  the  English  words  perfectly. 
.  .  .  She  wondered  if  Harry  was  thinking  of 
her  now  as  he  sat  motionless,  his  head  supported 
upon  his  hand  which  partly  concealed  his  face. 

She  had  seen  Harry  almost  every  day  of  late 
— always  by  chance,  of  course,  and  sometimes  for 
the  briefest  of  moments.  It  was  most  desirable 
—indeed  necessary  for  one's  health  to  take  the 
air  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  or  better  yet  in 
the  cool  of  the  evening;  and  it  was  singular  how 
often  one  chanced  to  meet  one's  friends  bent  on 
similar  errands  of  refreshment. 

That  queer  Mr.  Hobbs,  too,  who  spoke  French 
whenever  she  would  permit.  .  .  .  Mr.  Hobbs 
had  come  quite  boldly  to  call  upon  her  father 
soon  after  their  small  adventure,  and  had  been 
received  by  M.  Desaye  with  marked  favor.  On 
such  occasions  Madeleine  sat  unobstrusively  si- 
lent, listening  to  the  conversation,  which  as  a 
matter  of  course  concerned  itself  with  the  war. 
M.  Desaye  and  young  Hobbs  had  quickly  found  a 


NEIGHBORS  259 

common  ground  in  their  keen  regret  at  being  per- 
sonally absent  from  the  great  conflict.  Then  both 
men  had  glanced  guardedly  at  Madeleine,  as  if 
in  her  quiet  presence  each  found  a  satisfying 
reason  for  his  conduct.  Madeleine  still  found 
the  young  Englishman  interessant.  But  only  once 
had  she  compared  him  in  the  privacy  of  her 
thoughts  with  Harry.  There  were  no  further 
French  lessons,  now  that  Harry  was  working  in 
the  munitions  plant.  And  it  was  just  at  this 
point  of  their  common  labor  that  she  had  been 
led  to  think  of  the  two  young  men  at  one  and 
the  same  moment:  Mr.  Hobbs  was  working  at  the 
manufacture  of  shrapnel  because  he  wanted  to 
kill  Germans;  but  Harry  was  working  for  her. 
He  had  told  her  so,  both  in  French  and  in 
English. 

His  French  was  of  a  frightfulness,  to  be  sure; 
but  his  English  left  large  loopholes  for  the  im- 
agination. 

"  I'm  going  to  build  a  bang-up  house  on  my 
lot,"  he  informed  Madeleine.  "  And  don't  you 
forget  it,  little  girl,  you're  going  to  live  in  that 
house  some  day.  That's  why  I  changed  my  job; 
I'm  out  for  the  simoleons  for  fair." 

"  Simoleons "  was  a  long  and  difficult  word 
for  money,  Madeleine  learned;  the  very  much 
soiled  American  money  was  likewise  called 


26o  NEIGHBORS 

"  cash,"  "  bucks,"  "  rocks,"  as  well  as  dollairs. 
It  was  all  very  puzzling.  Yet  her  thoughts  lin- 
gered about  the  novel  idea  of  Harry  actually 
building  a  house.  She  had  shaken  her  head  over 
his  odd  notion  that  she  should  ever  live  in  that 
house. 

"  But  you  will,  sometime,"  he  urged.  "  Please 
say  yes." 

"  I  not  like  zat  word  e-e-s,"  she  objected,  an 
illusive  sparkle  in  her  eyes.  "  Nevaire  do  I  spik 
e-e-s;  eet  ees  not  nize  word." 

"  Say  we  then,"  boldly  urged  Harry.  "  We, 
us,  and  company  is  a  dandy  idea." 

Was  Harry  thinking  about  his  house,  she  won- 
dered, as  he  sat,  his  head  on  his  hand,  appar- 
ently oblivious  to  the  thunders  of  oratory  from 
the  pulpit?  Her  dark  gaze  lingered  question- 
ingly  on  his  averted  face.  But,  no!  it  could  not 
be — with  that  expression  of  keen  anxiety,  almost 
of  pain.  .  .  .  Why  was  he  so  still,  as  if  frozen 
into  rigid  immobility?  Her  girlish  curiosity  was 
rapidly  merging  into  anxiety,  when  suddenly,  as 
if  all  at  once  aware  of  the  soft  fire  of  her  gaze, 
the  young  man  looked  up.  Their  eyes  met.  .  .  . 
An  innocent  smile  dimpled  the  corners  of  Made- 
leine's lips. 

For  a  thrilling  instant  he  watched  her,  his 
troubled  eyes  full  of  the  question  which  had  been 


NEIGHBORS  261 

tormenting  him  under  the  spell  of  the  evan- 
gelist's preaching.  .  .  .  He  had  been  consider- 
ing his  monstrous  fraud  in  assuming  the  name  Le 
Noir.  He  had  known  all  along  that  it  was  ques- 
tionable; that  he  should  have  explained  himself 
and  his  paternity  to  Madeleine's  father.  And 
now  he  was  using  it  to  gain  money — for  her; 
all  for  her.  But  was  it  honest  money? 

Mr.  Pilgrim  had  chosen  the  subject  of  Hon- 
esty with  God  and  Man,  as  the  topic  of  his  sermon 
that  night.  With  unsparing  hand  he  had  stripped 
off  the  multi-colored  rags  of  hypocrisy  and  deceit 
with  which  sinning  humanity  strives  to  cover  its 
nakedness.  A  wayfaring  man,  though  a  fool, 
could  furnish  no  valid  excuse  for  not  understand- 
ing the  purport  of  Mr.  Pilgrim's  discourse.  The 
entire  congregation — with  the  exception  of  Made- 
leine, whose  engrossing  thoughts  in  fluent  French 
shut  out  all  save  the  sound  of  the  preacher's 
voice — realized  themselves  glissading  down  a 
slippery  incline  leading  to  fiery  death.  Thus  it 
was  that  Harry — his  stupefied  conscience  once 
more  awake  and  loudly  seconding  the  sermon — 
beheld  only  one  way  of  escape :  he  must  presently 
stumble  to  his  feet  and  before  all  the  staring  eyes 
of  the  village  must  somehow  compass  the  dis- 
tance between  his  shaky  camp-chair  and  the  open 
space  before  the  pulpit  reserved  for  those  "  under 


262  NEIGHBORS 

conviction."  He  must  confess  bis  sins — particu- 
larly those  of  omission — to  some  one,  any  one. 
There  was  no  other  way  by  which  to  save  his 
soul  from  that  eternity  of  poignant  misery  which 
yawned  beneath  his  very  feet.  The  reproaches, 
humiliation,  and  obloquy  which  would  assuredly 
follow  upon  the  heels  of  his  confession  seemed 
of  little  moment  to  Harry  compared  with  the 
blessed  relief  of  once  more  facing  his  future  with 
unabashed  eyes.  He  must — he  would  be 
"  saved  "  at  any  sacrifice  of  pride  or  passion. 

In  token  of  this  momentous  decision  Harry 
once  more  raised  his  head  and  straightened  his 
bowed  shoulders.  His  eyes  were  searching  the 
crowded  room  for  his  mother's  face.  She  would 
be  horrified,  he  knew,  at  the  revelation  of  his 
crime — his  deceit  appeared  no  less  than  a  crime 
to  Harry  in  his  excitement — but  she  would  be 

happy  when Then  all  at  once  his  heart 

leaped  to  his  throat.  .  .  .  Some  potent  force 
had  drawn  his  questing  gaze  to  the  chairs  oppo- 
site— to  Madeleine's  face,  with  its  soft  rose  and 
the  melting  fire  of  dark  eyes.  .  .  .  Madeleine 
smiled.  .  .  . 

After  all,  what  was  there  to  confess?  He  had 
committed  no  sin  worthy  of  an  unthinkable 
Hades.  .  .  .  Had  not  Madeleine  given  him  that 
name?  Like  a  knight  of  old  he  would  wear  his 


NEIGHBORS  263 

lady's  favor  in  the  battle  of  modern  existence.  It 
was  a  glorious  thought. 

The  loud  singing  waxed  and  waned,  obeying 
the  imperious  baton  of  the  young  man  on  the 
soap-box.  Harry's  lusty  young  baritone  swelled 
the  chorus.  He  felt  joyously  light  and  free,  as 
he  watched  the  reluctant  progress  of  persons 
from  all  parts  of  the  house  toward  that  small 
cleared  space  before  the  pulpit.  The  evangelist 
was  stooping  forward  to  grasp  the  hands  out- 
reached  to  his,  his  lean  face  flushed  with  the  tri- 
umph of  hard-won  victory. 

"That's  right!  That's  right!  "  he  was  saying, 
over  and  over. 

When  the  slow  procession  of  repentant  sinners 
appeared  to  linger  unduly  he  again  leaped  to  his 
feet,  by  turns  pleading,  cajoling,  threatening. 
The  "  personal  workers "  under  the  whip  and 
spur  of  his  stinging  rebukes  redoubled  their  ef- 
forts. Harry  watched  impersonally  the  majestic 
approach  of  Mrs.  Deaconess  Buckthorn,  as  she 
mounted  the  wooden  steps  of  the  platform.  Then 
he  glanced  once  more  at  Madeleine,  who  stood 
gazing  at  the  confused  scene  with  the  wide-eyed 
amazement  of  a  child.  He  saw  the  pink-cheeked 
girl  stoop  to  whisper  in  her  ear;  saw  Madeleine's 
puzzled  smile.  And  a  sort  of  fierce  indignation 
surged  up  within  him. 


264  NEIGHBORS 

It  was  as  if  some  ignorant  blunderer  had 
ruthlessly  broken  the  innocent  sleep  of 
childhood. 

"Darling!"  he  muttered  to  himself.  "She 
doesn't  understand  a  word  of  this  farce.  Why 
should  she?" 

Then  he  became  aware  that  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
had  come  to  a  standstill  at  his  side;  her  eyes, 
between  opposing  folds  of  flesh,  were  fixed  tear- 
fully upon  him. 

"  My  de-ar  young  friend,"  she  said,  "  I've  been 
a-watchin'  you  all  through  that  b-lessed  sermon. 
An'  thinks,  s'  I,  Harry  Schwartz  is  a  sinner 
under  conviction,  if  ever  I  see  one.  Praise  th' 
Lord!  Let  me  take  you  b'  th'  hand  an'  lead 
you  t'  th'  ark  of  safety." 

Harry  shook  off  the  moist,  fat  hand  which 
sought  to  enfold  his  own. 

"  Oh,  I — guess  you're  mistaken,"  he  muttered. 
"  I'm  all  right." 

"  Oh,  my  de-ar  boy,  don't  put  it  off !  "  en- 
treated Mrs.  Buckthorn.  "  If  the's  anythin' 
holdin'  you  back — any  darlin'  sin  that's  got  a  holt 
of  you — do  repent  b'fore  it's  too  late!  " 

But  Harry  pushed  rather  rudely  past  the  lady. 
He  wanted  more  than  anything  else  to  take  Made- 
leine away  from  Jim  Baldwin,  who  appeared  to 
be  urging  her  forward  almost  by  force. 


NEIGHBORS  265 

The  girl  glanced  up  at  Harry  with  a  sigh  of 
relief  as  he  gained  her  side. 

"  Oh,  I  like  bes'  t'  de-part  from  zis  so  es-trange 
plaice,"  she  murmured  plaintively.  "  Me — I  am 
not  devote,  nonf  To  be  a  religieuse  I  will  not. 
I  find  Mees  Malvina  an'  go  'ome  queek  to  my 
fat'er." 

"  Great  heavens,  man !  Can't  you  see  she 
doesn't  know  enough  English  to  understand  what 
you're  saying?"  demanded  Harry  roughly. 
"  Leave  her  alone,  will  you?  " 

Mr.  Baldwin  stared  angrily  at  the  intruder. 
'  You'd   better   hit   the   trail  yourself,   young 
man,"  was  his  trenchant  advice;  "  before  the  trail 
hits  you — see?  " 

Harry's  sole  reply  consisted  in  a  well-conducted 
retreat. 

"  Never  you  mind  Miss  Malvina,"  he  said  to 
Madeleine,  "  I'll  take  you  home  all  right." 


XXIV 

THAT  same  evening  Mr.  Kitchener  Hobbs 
had  also  attended  the  services  in  Mr.  Pet- 
tibone's  church.  He  had  done  so  for  a 
good  yet  simple  reason  entirely  disassociated  with 
religious  convictions  of  any  sort:  Mrs.  Pettibone 
had  asked  him  very  sweetly  to  come.  The  little 
lady  was  walking  slowly  along  the  street  pushing 
the  perambulator  before  her;  enthroned  in  this 
luxurious  vehicle  and  quite  pink  and  complacent, 
young  Master  Pettibone  viewed  the  passing  show, 
which  consisted  at  the  moment  of  a  muddy  farm- 
wagon,  a  yellow  dog,  frisking  ahead  with  ex- 
travagant demonstrations  of  joy,  and  a  single 
rather  grimy  pedestrian.  This  person  would 
have  hurried  past  without  show  of  recognition  had 
not  Mrs.  Pettibone  stopped  him. 

"Why,  Mr.  Hobbs,"  she  said;  "how  do  you 
do?" 

The  young  man  touched  his  cap  respectfully. 
He  did  not  wish  to  stop  and  talk  with  Mrs.  Petti- 
bone; but  he  appeared  to  have  no  choice  in  the 
matter. 

"  Don't  you  think  the  baby  has  grown?  "  she 
266 


NEIGHBORS  267 

demanded  proudly.     "  He'll  soon  be  six  months 
old!" 

The  young  Englishman  affected  to  examine  the 
infant  with  surprise.  He  was  a  thorough  gentle- 
man, as  was  the  illustrious  soldier  whose  name  he 
bore. 

"  He's  jolly  well  grown  since  I  saw  him  last," 
he  agreed  with  gratifying  sincerity.  "  And  is  that 
the  dog  we  chased  the  day  you  exchanged  your 
slippers,  Mrs.  Pettibone?" 

Mrs.  Pettibone  beamed  rosily  upon  Mr.  Hobbs. 
To  think  of  his  recalling  the  trifling  circumstance 
so  precisely!  He  must  really  be  a  remarkable 
young  man.  She  would  speak  to  Mr.  Pettibone 
about  him.  ...  In  the  meanwhile  she  must  not 
forget  his  immortal  soul. 

"  It's  the  very  same  dog,"  she  told  him. 
"  He's  the  most  intelligent  animal,  and  he  loves 
the  baby." 

Having  exchanged  these  amenities,  Mr.  Hobbs 
appeared  about  to  pass  on. 

"  Oh-h,"  faltered  the  minister's  wife.  "  I — I 
just  wanted  to  ask  you :  are  you  attending  the 
revival  services  at  the  church?  " 

Mr.  Hobbs  shook  his  head.  He  seldom  went 
out  of  an  evening,  he  said. 

"  But — but "     Mrs.   Pettibone's   face  had 

crimsoned  painfully  with  the  effort  she  was  mak- 


268  NEIGHBORS 

ing  to  do  her  duty.  "  If  you  haven't,  you  really 
ought,  you  know.  .  .  .  Every  one  ought  to—- 
don't you  think  one  should  be  quite  sure?" 

The  young  man  looked  honestly  puzzled. 

"  Quite  sure "  he  repeated. 

"Yes;  of  being — saved.  .  .  .  But,  oh!  I 
never  could  speak  to  any  one  properly  about  their 
souls — as  of  course  I  ought,  being  a  minister's 
wife." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  quite  breathless  by  now. 
She  clutched  the  handle  of  the  perambulator  so 
tightly  that  her  knuckles  showed  white  through 
the  skin. 

Mr.  Hobbs  blushed  youthfully. 

"  Oh — er — I'm  sure  I  ought  to  thank  you,"  he 
said.  "  But — er— really " 

"  Please  promise  me  you'll  go  to  the  meeting 
tonight,"  she  persisted,  still  breathlessly.  .  .  . 
"  I — I'm  afraid  I'm  not  a  good  worker  in  the 
church,  but — if  you " 

He  was  surprised  to  see  tears  glistening  on  her 
sparse  lashes. 

"  I  promised  Mr.  Pilgrim,"  she  added  deject- 
edly; "  and  now  I've — tried;  but  if  you " 

"  Oh,  I'll  come  to  your  church,  if  you'd  like 
me  to,"  he  said  quickly.  "  I  shan't  mind,  really." 

Her  gratitude  was  touching;  young  Hobbs  got 
away  from  it  hastily. 


NEIGHBORS  269 

Still  he  had  promised  to  attend  the  meeting, 
and  being  a  man  of  his  word,  he  found  himself 
in  a  rear  pew  as  the  church  bell  ceased  its  urgent 
appeals.  He  listened  with  serious  attention  to 
the  sermon  and  the  singing.  ...  In  the  light  of 
his  thoughts  it  was  unfortunate  that  to  Elder 
George  Trimmer  had  been  assigned  the  task  of 
speaking  to  the  unconverted  and  backsliders  in 
that  section  of  the  congregation  where  young 
Hobbs  was  seated.  The  conversation  between 
the  two  men  was  brief  and  pointed;  at  its  conclu- 
sion the  erstwhile  shoe  clerk  of  the  Trimmer  Em- 
porium, with  a  bitter  smile  upon  his  lips,  strolled 
out  to  the  vestibule.  He  had  seen  Madeleine 
enter  with  Miss  Malvina  and  Ma  Bennett,  and 
the  thought  of  himself  walking  home  with 
her  in  the  cloudy  darkness  of  the  autumnal 
evening  soothed  his  ruffled  feelings.  Through 
the  open  door  of  the  church  he  saw  that  a 
light  rain  was  falling  and  congratulated 
himself  on  his  forethought  in  bringing  an 
umbrella. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  before  he  saw  her  coming 
through  the  swinging  door,  closely  followed  by  a 
tall  young  man  with  indeterminate  features  and 
a  ruddy  complexion.  He  had  seen  him  before, 
he  knew;  also,  for  no  reason  whatever,  he  dis- 
liked the  fellow,  even  before  he  perceived  his 


270  NEIGHBORS 

arrogant  assumption  of  proprietorship  in  Made- 
leine. 

"  Good  evening,  Miss  Madeleine,"  said 
Kitchener  Hobbs  in  French,  affecting  not  to  see 
her  companion.  "  It  is  raining;  but  fortunately, 
like  a  true  Londoner,  I  fetched  my  umbrella. 
.  .  .  You  will  let  me  take  you  home  ?  " 

The  girl  blushed  with  girlish  embarrassment. 

"  You  aire  of  a  politeness,"  she  murmured. 
"But — you  will  excuse  mos'  kind,  n'est-ce-pasf  " 

"  It  is  raining  quite  fast,"  particularized  Mr. 
Hobbs,  still  unconscious  of  the  masculine  pres- 
ence at  Madeleine's  side. 

Harry  Schwartz  scowled  blankly  at  the  wet, 
shining  pavements  and  the  wet,  dripping  foliage. 
Then  his  eyes  brightened:  in.  an  umbrella  stand 
near  the  door  he  spied  the  means  of  escape. 

"  I  have  an  umbrella,"  he  said,  calmly  possess- 
ing himself  of  a  large,  substantial  article  bearing 
the  name  Buckthorn  prominently  displayed  upon 
its  handle.  He  assured  his  badly  abused  con- 
science that  he  would  return  it  before  Mrs.  Buck- 
thorn had  finished  her  pious  labors  within.  Upon 
Mr.  Hobbs  he  bestowed  a  single  glance  of 
defiance. 

"  Perhaps  we'd  better  hurry  along,"  he  sug- 
gested to  Madeleine;  "then  I'll  hustle  back  with 
an  umbrella  for  Miss  Malvina  and  the  old  lady." 


NEIGHBORS  271 

Madeleine  hesitated:  to  avoid  wounding  a 
friend  while  declining  a  kindness  required  one's 
savoir-faire. 

"  Mistaire  Hobb,"  she  began,  with  a  bewitch- 
ing glance  of  entreaty,  "  I  am  very  much  'ope  you 
aire  not  mad  wiz  me.  But  I  'ave  honeur  to 
tell  you  Mis-taire  Sh-sh-wart-z  take  me  'ome. 
.  .  .  You  aire  acquainted  wiz  heem,  n'est- 
ce-pas?" 

The  two  young  men  stared  at  each  other,  with 
a  slight — a  very  slight  stiffening  of  their  spinal 
processes.  In  their  eyes  shone  the  primeval  glint 
of  the  male  animal. 

Madeleine  was  vaguely  alarmed. 

"  Vary  nize  person — M'sieu'  Le  Noir,"  she 
murmured.  "  Vary  much  you  like  'im,  Mis-taire 
Hobb." 

"  I  didn't  catch  your  name,  sir,"  said  Kitchener 
Hobbs. 

"  My  name  is  Schwartz,"  snapped  Harry. 

Then  he  grew  suddenly  pale. 

"Haven't  I  seen  you  at  the  Plant?"  inquired 
Mr.  Hobbs,  unpleasantly  circumstantial. 

Harry  controlled  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  I  work  there,"  he  said. 

Madeleine  had  retreated  to  the  door  of  the 
audience  room,  from  whence  issued  triumphant 
bursts  of  song. 


272  NEIGHBORS 

"  Oh,  I  sink  I  bes'  wait  for  Mees  Malvina," 
she  murmured,  her  eyes  wide  with  apprehension. 

"  I  quite  agree  with  you,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs, 
deliberately  turning  his  back  upon  Harry.  "  Miss 
Bennett  might — er — be  alarmed  at  not  finding 
you." 

Harry's  heart  was  pounding  furiously  in  his 
scarlet  ears. 

"  Look  here !  "  he  said  thickly,  addressing  him- 
self to  his  rival,  "  who  asked  you  to  butt  in?  " 

Mr.  Hobbs  assumed  as  well  as  he  was  able 
the  expression  of  Lord  Kitchener  after  his  return 
from  Khartoum.  He  did  not  appear  to  have  un- 
derstood the  rude  question. 

"  I  think  you  will  not  have  long  to  wait,"  he 
said  to  Madeleine,  in  her  own  language,  which 
to  his  angry  antagonist  sounded  precisely  like  the 
flawlessly  unintelligible  speech  of  M.  Desaye. 

Harry,  all  his  Teuton  and  Revolutionary 
blood  suddenly  rising  to  the  boiling  point  with 
love  and  fury,  closed  in  upon  Mr.  Hobbs.  He 
had  not  been  so  angry  since  a  boy  in  the  third 
grade  of  the  public  school  had  called  him 
"  sissy,"  because  his  mother  had  persisted  in 
sparing  his  yellow  curls.  On  that  occasion  young 
Harry  had  fallen  fearlessly  upon  the  aggressor, 
though  he  was  twice  his  size,  and  beaten  him 
unmercifully. 


NEIGHBORS  273 

"  You  didn't  answer  me,"  he  stated  hoarsely, 
in  unpleasant  proximity  to  Mr.  Hobbs'  ear. 

"No;  and  I  don't  intend  to,"  replied  Mr. 
Hobbs  disdainfully.  "  You're  the  sort  of  bounder 
a  gentleman  doesn't  recognize." 

At  this  psychological  instant  Madeleine's 
quick  wits  prevented  a  continuation  of  hostilities 
which  might  have  resulted  disastrously  on  the 
very  threshold  of  the  revival.  She  laid  her  hand 
lightly  on  Harry's  sleeve,  beneath  which  bulged 
angry  muscles. 

'  Very  much  oblige,"  she  said  sweetly.  "  You 
aire  mos'  frien'ly  an'  of  a  politeness — oui.  Me 
— I  present  to  you  one  tousan'  tanks.  .  .  .  We 
wait  for  Madame  Dubois-Bennett  an'  Mees  Mal- 
vina — e-e-ss?  " 

Into  the  final  word — which  she  had  declined  to 
utter  only  the  day  before  at  his  entreaty — the 
girl  managed  to  convey  such  coaxing  sweet- 
ness, such  alluring  charm  that  Harry  felt 
his  rage  suddenly  vanish  like  a  wind-blown 
mist. 

"  All  right,"  he  murmured,  his  honest  blue 
eyes  beaming  down  upon  her.  "  Anything  you 
say  goes." 

"  Sure  it  does,"  she  made  haste  to  agree, 
"you  aire,  my  frien',  of  a  right  deadness;  tres 
bien!" 


274  NEIGHBORS 

Then  upon  the  smart  of  Mr.  Hobbs'  resent- 
ment she  poured  the  balm  of  her  smile. 

"  How  I  am  g-lad  for  very  nize  ombrell,"  she 
warbled.  "  Mees  Malvina,  aussi,  an'  Madame, 
her  Ma — snug  as  rug  in  bug — :all — ev-e-rie  one — 
wiz  such  gr-eat  kin'ness  of  our  frien's." 

Mr.  Hobbs  regained  his  presence  of  mind  at 
a  single  bound. 

"  Charmed,  I'm  sure,  to  be  of  some  small 
service,"  he  said,  with  a  bow  which  would  have 
gained  him  recognition  in  Hyde  Park.  "  Permit 
me " 

He  pressed  his  umbrella  into  Madeleine's 
hand,  and  was  gone  into  the  rainy  night  before 
she  could  utter  a  remonstrance. 

Perhaps  it  was  fortunate  that  Miss  Malvina 
and  Ma  Bennett  came  hurriedly  forth  at  that 
moment.  Miss  Malvina's  cheeks  were  flushed, 
her  eyes  bright. 

"Well,  I  d'clare,  Mad'lane!"  she  exclaimed; 
"  so  that's  what  b'come  o'  you?  Harry  Schwartz, 
you'd  ought  t'  be  in  there,  settin'  with  th'  mourn- 
ers this  minute:  I  seen  you  take  Mad'lane  away, 
jes'  as  Jim  Baldwin  was  a-laborin'  with  her." 

"  She  wanted  to  go  home,"  Harry  excused  him- 
self inadequately. 

"  A  poor  excuse  's  better  'n'  none,"  retorted 
Miss  Malvina.  "  Ef  it  hadn't  a-ben  f'r  Ma  I 


NEIGHBORS  275 

don'  know  but  what  I'd  a-jined  in  with  th'  back- 
sliders. But  Ma  didn't  ketch  much  o'  what  he 
was  sayin' ;  an'  b'sides  she  got  a  pain  in  th'  small 
of  her  back  from  settin'  s'  long  in  that  pesky 
camp-cheer.  .  .  .  An'  then  along  comes  Henery 
Pratt  an'  hed  th'  nerve  to  ask  Ma  V  me  t'  hit 
th'  trail.  '  Why,  who's  got  on  a  trail,  Malviny?' 
says  Ma,  innocent.  I  thought  I  sh'd  die !  '  Mr. 
Sign-painter  Pratt,'  I  says  severe,  '  ef  you'd 
a-took  that  sermon  in,'  I  says,  '  you  wouldn't  be 
talkin'  no  sech  nonsense  t'  Ma  Bennett.  You 
ain't  worthy  t'  unbutton  her  shoes,'  I  says.  *  'N' 
I'd  like  it  t'  sink  deep  in  your  years — speakin'  of 
the  subjec'  of  the  sermon,'  I  says,  '  which  was 
honesty,  that  the  paint  on  my  dressmakin'  sign  is 
peelin'  off  a'ready — an'  me  payin'  a  dollar  V 
seventy-fi'  cents  for  it  less  'n'  six  months  ago. 
You  go  down  on  that  trail,  Henery,'  I  says,  '  'n' 
see  ef  you  can't  git  a-holt  of  a  brand  o'  r'ligion 
'at  '11  make  you  mix  your  paint  with  linseed  oil 
'stead  o'  kur'sene! '" 

Quite  unabashed  by  this  pointed  exposition 
on  common  honesty,  Harry  spread  the  Buckthorn 
umbrella  over  Madeleine,  while  Miss  Malvina 
and  Ma  went  on  before  under  the  shelter  so 
kindly  loaned  by  Mr.  Hobbs. 

"  Wa'n't  it  nice  o'  him  t'  think  of  two  old 
women,  like  me  an'  Ma  1  "  floated  back  to  the 


276  NEIGHBORS 

two  young  people  over  Miss  Malvina's  shoulder. 
"  I'll  bet  a  dollar  Hoddy  Hobbs  '11  get  a  star  in 
his  crown  fer  that !  " 

"Wat  ees  star-in-crown?  "  propounded  Made- 
leine, striving  to  pierce  the  gloom  of  Harry's 
demeanor. 

"  I  never  saw  one  of  'em,"  replied  Harry  de- 
jectedly, "  an'  I  guess  I  never  will — now." 

"  Will  I  evaire  see  one  of  zose  crown-in- 
stars?"  persisted  the  girl.  "You  like  zem — 
eh?" 

"  They'd  look  dandy  on  you,"  sighed  Harry. 
"  But  I  hope  you  won't  get  one  for  a  long  time 
yet.  .  .  .  Say,  Madeleine,  there's  something  I 
want  to  ask  you." 

"  Tres  bien— ee-ss?" 

A  cold  trickle  from  the  Buckthorn  umbrella 
winding  deviously  down  the  back  of  his  collar 
still  further  depressed  the  sinking  barometer  of 
Harry's  feelings. 

"  There's  a  lot  of  things  I  want  you  to  tell 
me.  I've  got  to  know  'em,  or  go  up  the  spout." 

"  Alrigh-t,"  the  girl  encouraged  him. 

"  Say,  do  you  think  it's  square  for  me  to  go 
on  being  called  Le  Noir?  On  the  level,  now, 
have  I  any  right  to  that  name  ?  " 

Madeleine  pondered  the  proposition,  expressed 
in  terms  of  two  dimensions,  with  care. 


NEIGHBORS  277 

"Wat  ees  sq-ware?"  she  inquired  cautiously. 
"  Eees  zat  nize  word — sq-ware?" 

"  If  I  could  jabber  French  like  that  nervy  chap, 
Hobbs,  I  could  explain  in  a  jiffy,"  he  growled 
deep  in  his  throat. 

"In  a  jiffy? — an  auto-mo-bile?  Oui — I  un'er- 
stan1 !  " 

"  Hang  it !  I  didn't  say  jitney,"  protested 
Harry.  "  Look  here,  Madeleine,  we'll  cut  out 
the  figures  of  speech,  for  once,  an'  try  to  get 
down  to  brass  tacks,  so  you'll  savez — see  ?  " 

"  Brasstack — oui.     Tres  bien!" 

"  Do  you  remember  when  you  introduced  me 
to  your  father — votre  fader.  You  know?  You 
didn't  want  him  to  catch  on  that  I  was  German. 
.  .  .  Of  course  I  ain't!  I'm  American — clear 
to  the  backbone;  and  I'll  knock  the  spots  out  of 
any  cheap  sport  who  dares  to  say  I  ain't.  I'm 
American  all  right.  But  I've  got  a  Deutsch  name : 
Heinrich  Schwartz.  I  don't  care;  it's  a  blamed 
good  name.  And  it's  an  American  name,  because 
I'm  one.  And  what's  more,  it's  going  to  be  an 
American  name — for  I  don'  know  how  long!  " 

Harry  paused,  impressed  with  the  spotless 
pages  of  American  history  embellished  with  the 
name  of  Heinrich  Schwartz,  which  seemed  sud- 
denly unrolled  before  him. 

"  It's  time  all  this  darned  nonsense  about  names 


278  NEIGHBORS 

was  wiped  out !  "  he  stated  with  some  violence. 
"  Why  isn't  Schwartz  as  good  as  Black — or  Le 
Noirf  I'm  blamed  if  it  ain't!  But  I  guess  I've 
put  my  foot  in  it  by  translating  it  into  blooming 
belle  Frangaise.  ...  If  that  British  chap  should 
give  me  away  at  the  Plant " 

"You  call  yourself  Le  Noir — at  Plant?" 
asked  Madeleine,  suddenly  pouncing  upon  the 
crux  of  the  matter,  like  a  preternaturally  bright 
kitten. 

"  Y-yes,"  admitted  Harry  reluctantly.  "  They 
were  turning  away  applicants  with  German 
names.  ...  I  wanted  the  job — you  know  why. 
If  you  don't,  I'll  tell  you  again:  I  want  you  to 
marry  me  as  soon  as  I  earn  enough  to  build  my 
house.  .  .  .  I — I  love  you,  Madeleine." 

Harry's  voice  was  scarcely  audible  as  he  made 
his  final  fateful  statement.  It  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  shouted  it  from  the  housetops;  every 
lighted  window  glimpsed  through  vistas  of  drip- 
ping foliage  appeared  to  be  spying  upon  him  with 
stealthy  enjoyment.  His  heart  thumped  loudly  in 
his  ears  as  he  waited  for  her  answer. 

But  Madeleine,  it  seemed,  was  still  pondering 
his  initial  question:  ought  he  to  call  himself  Le 
(Noir  in  order  to  earn  money?  This  much  she 
had  comprehended  clearly. 

"  I  zink  I  ask  my  fat'er,"  she  said  at  last.    "  I 


NEIGHBORS  279 

ex-plain  all  to  heem,  zen  I  tell  to  you You 

like  me  to  ex-plain,  n' est-ce-pas?  " 

"  Then  you  do!    Oh,  Madeleine !  " 

Harry's  further  utterance  was  choked  with 
rapture ;  but  he  managed  to  possess  himself  of  her 
hand,  which  he  squeezed  fervently. 

"  But  I  guess  it's  up  to  me  to  face  the  music," 
he  added  dubiously.  .  .  .  She  had  withdraw  the 
squeezed  hand  with  a  little  cry. 

"  Did  I  hurt  you  ? "  he  inquired  penitently. 
"  I'm  so  happy  I  guess  I  didn't  realize — say, 
Madeleine;  did  you  mean  it?  " 

Her  upturned  face  in  the  strong  radiance  of 
a  swinging  arc  light  was  so  lovely  that  he  yearned 
to  kiss  it;  but  the  puzzled  pucker  between  her 
brows  deflected  him  from  his  purpose.  f 

"  I  can  never  be  sure  just  how  much  you  take 
in  of  what  I'm  saying,"  he  complained.  "  Darn 
it!  if  I'd  only  worked  harder  while  I  had  the 
chance  I  might  have  been  able  to  parlez-vous,  by 
now.  .  .  .  Come  to  think,  I  do  know  the  first  part 
of  one  verb:  J'aimef  Savez  j'alme,  Madeleine?  " 

To  his  dismay  she  burst  into  ringing  mirth. 

"  You  aire  mos'  fonny,  'Arry,"  she  told  him. 
"  Qweek  I  die  laffin'." 

"Funny?"  he  echoed.  "Then  you  think  it's 
a  joke,  when  a  man  asks  you  to  marry  him,  do 
you?  That's  what  I'm  trying  to  say.  I  want — • 


28o  NEIGHBORS 

you — for — my — wife  I  .  .  .  Do  you  know  what 
wife  means?  " 

His  face,  changed  subtly  from  the  inchoate 
good  looks  of  the  boy  to  the  stern  masterfulness 
of  the  man  bent  toward  her. 

"  Do  you?  "  he  urged. 

She  shook  her  head  airily. 

"  I  zink  bes'  you  etudier  le  dictionnaire  Fran- 
gais,"  she  said.  "  Enfin,  I  un'erstan'  more 
qweek." 

Her  eyes,  bright  as  stars  in  the  uncertain  light, 
told  him  nothing. 

"  All  right,"  he  said  doggedly.  "  I'll  get  busy. 
There's  a  few  words  I'm  going  to  make  you  un- 
derstand, if  I  study  all  night." 

"  Merci — one  sousan',  my  frien';  me — I  also 
es-tudy  my  dictionnaire  dnglais  an'  I  fin'  all  zose 
es-trange  word — zose  wi-ife  an'  tomarrieem. 
You  like  me  to  do  eet — 'Arry?  " 

"Madeleine!" 

But  already  they  had  reached  the  gate  of  Miss 
Philura's  little  house — which  had  once  swung 
wide  to  the  sober,  middle-aged  wooing  of  the 
Rev.  Silas  Pettibone — and  she  had  passed  quickly 
inside. 

"  Zose  parapluie,"  she  reminded  him.  "  You 
aire  oblige  to  take  heem?  " 

"  That's  right !  "  he  exclaimed,  a  vision  of  the 


NEIGHBORS  281 

outraged  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  vainly  searching  for 
her  umbrella,  adding  itself  to  the  sum  total  of  his 
discomfiture.  .  .  .  As  he  sprinted  down  the  street 
he  could  hear  Madeleine's  high  sweet  call  of 
greeting  and  farewell  to  Miss  Malvina,  who  had 
evidently  been  watching  for  her  safe  arrival. 

14  Confound  it!  "  murmured  Harry,  vaguely 
displeased  with  Miss  Malvina,  the  world  at  large, 
and  most  of  all  with  himself. 


XXV 

A~  was  entirely  natural,  Mr.  Hobbs  called  for 
his  umbrella  on  the  following  evening.    He 
did  not,  he  explained  to  M.  Desaye,  wish 
to  put  any  one  to  the  trouble  of  returning  the 
parapluie,  which  he  was  only  too  happy  to  have 
had  with  him  for  the  service  of  the  ladies. 

M.  Desaye  knew  of  no  such  umbrella.  He 
searched  among  his  own  without  success.  But 
would  not  Monsieur  Hobbs  do  him  the  honor  of 
entering  his  humble  abode?  His  daughter  Made- 
leine, who  was  at  the  moment  visiting  their  amia- 
ble neighbor,  Mademoiselle  Dubois-Bennett, 
might  know  about  the  umbrella.  And  this  put 
him  in  mind  of  the  singularly  interesting  dis- 
covery he  had  made  with  regard  to  Miss  Mal- 
vina's  ancestry.  'It  was  pleasant  to  be  able  to 
relate  the  piquant  incident  in  his  own  tongue, 
which  the  young  Englishman  understood  without 
difficulty.  And  so  for  the  better  part  of  an  hour 
the  father  of  Madeleine  discoursed  at  length 
on  the  amazing  tout  ensemble  of  the  so-called 
American,  born  of  many  nations,  yet  resembling 

282 


NEIGHBORS  283 

none.  Even  the  German-American — M.  Desaye 
pulled  a  wry  face  at  the  hyphenate  word — fre- 
quently exhibited  small  traces  of  his  deplorable 
Teuton  blood.  .  .  .  Did  M.  Hobbs,  par  ex- 
ample, number  any  such  person  among  his 
acquaintance? 

Mr.  Hobbs  hesitated.  Here  was  the  appro- 
priate dagger,  its  handle  toward  his  hand. 
Should  he  use  it?  Was  it  not,  indeed,  his  duty 
to  warn  the  unworldly  father  of  Madeleine  that 
a  certain  bounder — he  could  think  of  no  other 
descriptive  adjective  for  the  rude  and  bucolic 
Harry — a  German  (never  mind  the  American) 
even  now  threatened  his  domestic  peace?  His 
newly  acquired  sense  of  duty  and  the  stern 
Kitchener  code  of  honor  struggled  together  for 
an  instant.  He  determined  upon  a  safe  middle 
course.  Far  be  it  from  a  Kitchener  Hobbs  to 
meanly  retaliate  upon  his  rival:  but — to  instil 
a  proper  amount  of  caution  into  the  receptive 
mind  of  M.  Desaye  need  not  collide  with  the 
strictest  manual  of  deportment. 

"  I — er — since  you  ask  me,  sir,  I  will  say  that 
I  do  know  such  a  person.  A — er " 

Young  Hobbs  grew  uncomfortably  hot  inside 
his  starched  collar.  How  was  he  to  convey  the 
much  needed  warning  without  actual  hypocrisy? 

M.  Desaye  eyed  him  intently. 


284  NEIGHBORS 

"Ah-h-h?"  he  ejaculated  softly.  u  An'  w'at, 
pray,  do  you  zink  of  heem?  " 

"  I  don't  like  him,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Hobbs 
sternly. 

"  Naturellement"  agreed  the  Frenchman,  with 
a  shrug. 

Kitchener  Hobbs  frowned  at  his  boots,  which 
were  impeccably  polished.  Then  suddenly  his 
brow  cleared:  he  had  determined  upon  a 
bold  course;  one  which  would  give  him  the 
right  to  speak  unreservedly  to  the  father  of 
Madeleine. 

"  The  fact  is,  sir,"  he.  blurted  out,  "  I  love 
your  daughter.  I  hope  you  have  no  objections." 

"  You — lo-ove — my  daughter!  .  .  .  An'  you 
aire  'ope  I've  no  objection?" 

M.  Desaye's  tone  was  carefully  modulated;  his 
smile  might  even  be  construed  as  encouraging. 

"  I'm  not  rich,"  modestly  admitted  Mr.  Hobbs; 
"  but  I'm  clean  and  honest.  I'm  an  Englishman, 
— er — my  mother  is  American." 

"Allans!  You  aire  also  of  zat  melange — 
tant  bon  que  mauvals." 

The  Englishman  reddened  angrily. 

"  Better  English-American  than  German- 
American,"  he  said  stiffly. 

"  But  why  either?  "  inquired  M.  Desaye,  pleas- 
antly impersonal.  "I  return  to  France;  my 


NEIGHBORS  285 

daughter  also.    Enfin  she  marries  a  Frenchman: 
eet  ees  my  purpose." 

'  You  forget  that  your  daughter  is  beautiful, 
and  that  she  is  unprotected  from  the  advances  of 
even  Germans  in  a  country  where,  as  you  say, 
the  good  and  the  bad  are  mixed  in  pretty  even 
proportions." 

It  was  M.  Desaye's  turn  to  redden  angrily. 
'  You  will  of  your  goodness  explain  yourself, 
monsieur,"  he  said  with  ominous  politeness. 

"  Do  you  chance  to  know  a  fellow  who  calls 
himself  Le  Nolr?  "  asked  Hoddy  Hobbs,  casting 
altruism  and  the  Kitchener  code  to  the  winds. 

"Henri  Le  Noir?  Young — eh,  of  a  ruddy 
complexion?  Certainement!  I  have  attempted  to 
teach  him  French." 

"  Did  you  succeed,  sir?" 

M.  Desaye  drew  his  brows  together.  Many 
things  recurred  to  his  agile  memory.  He  linked 
them  swiftly  into  one  sinister  whole. 

"Ah-h-h!"  he  exhaled  lightly  between  closed 
teeth.  '  You  aire  telling  me  zat  young  man  ees — 
I  'ave  been  dupe — deceive?  Wat  ees  zis  you 
say?" 

"  His  name,"  stated  Kitchener  Hobbs  distinctly, 
"  is  Schwartz — Heinrich  Schwartz.  He  told  me 
so  himself.  .  .  .  He  has  somehow  managed  to 
win  the  confidence  of  your  daughter  and — you 


286  NEIGHBORS 

ought  to  know  it,  sir, — he  walked  home  with 
Madeleine  last  night." 

Dead  silence  followed  these  correlated  state- 
ments. The  father  of  Madeleine  opened  and 
closed  his  sinewy  fingers  two  or  three  times,  while 
the  veins  on  his  forehead  swelled  visibly.  But 
he  did  not  burst  into  excited  recriminations.  His 
eyes,  very  bright  and  rather  unpleasant  to  con- 
template, were  fixed  immovably  upon  an  odd  bit 
of  faience,  representing  a  Dutch  woman  in  a 
winged  cap  carrying  balanced  water-jugs. 

"  I  fancy  I've  made  a  bally  ass  of  myself," 
stammered  Kitchener  Hobbs,  hating  the  Dutch 
woman  with  ardor.  "  But  I  thought — it  seemed 
to  me " 

M.  Desaye  arose. 

"  Monsieur,"  said  he,  "  permit  me  to  t'ank 
you.  .  .  .  Ah — regrettable  that  you  cannot  of 
your  goodness  pay  me  a  longer  visit.  .  .  .  Bon 
soir,  monsieur!  Goo'  night!  " 

His  smile  was  pervasive,  irresistible.  Young 
Hobbs  found  himself  wafted,  as  it  were,  on 
waves  of  good  will  and  friendly  cordiality  to  the 
front  door,  which  closed  gently — very  gently — 
behind  him. 

Outside  in  the  cool  darkness  Mr.  Hobbs  took 
brief  counsel  with  himself. 

"Confound  a  Frenchman,  anyway!"  he  mut- 


NEIGHBORS  287 

tered,  and  permitted  himself  a  brief  though  re- 
freshing interval  of  impersonal  criticism.  Every 
Briton  is  of  course  aware  of  the  inherent  insin- 
cerity of  the  French  character,  "  slippery  "  being 
the  favorite  descriptive  adjective.  One  never 
knew  where  to  find  a  Frenchman,  he  told  himself 
banally.  Upon  further  reflection,  during  which 
young  Hobbs  passed  his  late  conversation  with 
M.  Desaye  in  swift  review,  he  perceived  that  his 
bold  declaration  of  love  for  Madeleine  had  hope- 
lessly muddled  the  situation. 

"  She'll  hate  me  for  telling,"  he  concluded 
simply. 

There  was  but  one  course  of  action  which  sug- 
gested itself  under  existing  circumstances.  He 
resolved  to  follow  it. 

Miss  Malvina  opened  the  door  to  his  agitated 
ring. 

"  Good  gracious !  "  she  exclaimed,  as  she  recog- 
nized her  visitor,  "  if  it  ain't  you,  Hoddy  Hobbs ! 
Walk  right  in,  do." 

Mr.  Hobbs  inwardly  resented  Miss  Bennett's 
familiar  use  of  his  mother's  undignified  abbrevia- 
tion of  the  magnificent  Horatio  Herbert.  He 
detested  the  name  Hoddy;  but  he  walked  in, 
aware  of  Madeleine's  light  laugh  in  the  room 
beyond. 

"  I    got   your    ombrel'    all    safe,"    said   Miss 


288  NEIGHBORS 

Malvina.  "  My !  I  don'  know  what  we'd  a-done 
without  it,  with  Ma's  r'eumatiz  an'  all.  It  cert'ly 
was  reel  sweet  o'  you  t'  r'member  Ma  an'  me. 
I  was  jest  a-sayin'  t'  Mad'lane,  *  Th'  ain't  many 
young  fellers,'  I  says,  *  would  give  us  a  thought.' ' 

She  stood  on  tiptoe  to  whisper  in  his  ear: 

"  I  put  in  a  good  word  f'r  you,  Hoddy.  .  .  . 
My!  ain't  she  a  lovely  girl!  But  you'll  hev  t' 
watch  out,  er  Harry  Schwartz  '11  cut  you  out. 
.  .  .  He's  an  awful  nice  boy,  Harry  is.  I've 
knowed  him  sence  he  was  in  dresses — prettiest 
little  feller  y'ever  see,  with  yellow  curls  down  on 
his  shoulders  an'  th'  pinkest  cheeks.  My !  " 

11 1 — er — wish  to  speak  to  Miss  Desaye,"  said 
Mr.  Hobbs  stiffly.  "  I  was  told  she  was  here." 

11 1  want  t'  know!  "  wondered  Miss  Malvina; 
"  her  pa  must  'a'  told  you.  She  run  in  jes'  f'r  a 
minute  t'  bring  Ma  some  gaiters — that's  what  she 
calls  them  little  cakes  with  a  raisin  on  top.  .  .  . 
Here's  your  ombrel'  an'  your  hat  right  on  top 
of  it,  so's  you  can't  forgit  it.  ...  Come  t'  beau 
Mad'lane  home  you'll  be  s'  excited  you'll  likely 
forgit  you  ever  owned  one." 

Madeleine  blushed  when  she  beheld  the  pale, 
stern  face  of  Kitchener  Hobbs.  He  had  an  air 
of  mastery  about  him,  which  caused  a  vague  but 
agreeable  shiver  to  pass  over  her. 

"  Speak  of  angels,"  announced  Miss  Malvina 


NEIGHBORS  289 

joyously,  "  an'  you  ketch  th'  flutter  o'  their  wings. 
.  .  .  Wa'n't  we  jest  a-talkin'  about  Hoddy 
Hobbs?  Set  right  down  clost  t'  Ma,  Hoddy,  so  's 
she  c'n  hear  what  you're  sayin'.  An'  I  was  tellin' 
'em  what  a  nice,  neat  boy  you  was,  never  givin' 
your  ma  any  trouble,  an' " 

But  Mr.  Hobbs  declined  the  chair  Miss  Mal- 
vina  kindly  cleared  of  sewing  materials  for  him. 
Madeleine  had  retreated  toward  the  door  with 
a  murmured  explanation  which  concerned  her  fa- 
ther, alone  and  missing  her. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  your  pa  c'n  git  along  without  you 
fer  a  spell  longer,"  protested  Ma  Bennett. 
"  Don't  go  yit  awhile." 

Miss  Malvina  winked  knowingly  at  Ma.  She 
had  witnessed  the  exchange  of  glances  between 
Hoddy  Hobbs  and  Madeleine,  with  a  youthful 
quickening  of  her  own  pulses. 

"  Why,  Ma,"  she  said,  after  she  had  closed  the 
front  door  on  the  two,  "  ef  you  wa'n't  blinder  'n 
a  bat  you  c'd  see  he's  a-payin'  attention  t'  Mad'- 
lane.  Didn't  you  take  notice  how  red  she  got 
when  he  come  in?  An'  he  fairly  'et  her  up  with 
his  eyes." 

Miss  Malvina  sighed  plaintively. 

"  My !  it  must  be  awful  nice  t'  be  young  an' 
han'some  an'  have  a  beau.  .  ...  I  don'  know  's 
I  ever  had  one." 


290  NEIGHBORS 

"  Yes,  you  did,  too,  Malviny,"  contradicted 
Ma.  "  Don't  you  r'member  th'  was  Obed 
Salter •" 

"  Yes,"  scoffed  Miss  Malvina,  "  Obed  come 
home  with  me  from  prayer  meetin'  once,  after 
his  first  wife  died.  I  wouldn't  look  at  that  oF 
widower,  no  more  'n  I'd  fly!  No,  sir!  not  ef  he 
was  th'  las'  man  on  earth." 

"  An'  th'  was  a  feller  named  Peck,"  went  on 
Ma  eagerly.  "  He  was " 

"  Oh,  th'  ain't  no  use  in  rakin'  up  them  old 
mem'ries,"  interrupted  Miss  Malvina,  almost 
pettishly.  "  I  got  an  autograph  album  up  in  the 
attic;  I  r'member  we  passed  it  'round  in  school, 
'n'  all  the  boys  wrote  opp'site  the  girls  they  liked 
best.  George  Beels  wrote  opp'site  me;  but  then 
he  went  off  an*  courted  Hattie  Myers.  But,  my 
goodness!  I'd  no  more  'a'  married  Undertaker 
George  Beels,  not  ef  he  was  th'  last  man 

The  loud  whir  of  the  sewing  machine  drowned 
further  reminiscences.  But  Miss  Malvina's 
cheeks  were  almost  as  pink  as  Madeleine's  when 
she  finally  drew  down  the  shades  preparatory 
to  going  to  bed.  There  was  a  young  moon 
in  the  sky,  companioned  by  a  single  bright 
star. 

Miss  Malvina  sighed  as  she  gazed.  It  made 
her  think  of  Madeleine  and  Hoddy  Hobbs. 


NEIGHBORS  291 

"  My !  "  she  repeated  wistfully,  "  it  must  be 
awful  nice  to  be  young  an'  hev  a  beau." 

There  was  a  light  burning  steadily  in  the  win- 
dow of  her  neighbor's  house;  it  finally  drew  her 
eyes  from  a  contemplation  of  the  heavenly 
luminaries. 

"  Whatever  'd  he  do,  ef  Mad'lane  was  t'  take 
a  notion  t'  git  married?"  she  asked  the  cat. 
Then  she  put  a  nail  into  its  worn  hole  above  the 
sash  and  shut  the  outer  world  from  view,  won- 
dering as  she  did  so  what  Hoddy  Hobbs  could 
be  saying  to  Madeleine  out  there  in  the  moon- 
light. In  her  youth — which  seemed  a  great  way 
off — Miss  Malvina  had  never  walked  under 
moonlit  trees  with  a  young  man.  Now,  with  a 
curious,  unaccustomed  ache,  she  wished  she  had. 

"  Jest  once — so  't  I  could  look  back  an'  r'mem- 
ber  it,"  she  murmured  humbly,  as  she  blew  down 
the  chimney  of  her  kerosene  lamp.  ... 

But  Madeleine  had  appeared  wholly  indifferent 
to  her  superior  opportunities,  as  she  walked 
quickly  down  Miss  Malvina's  graveled  path. 
With  every  light  footfall  young  Kitchener  Hobbs 
beheld  his  immediate  opportunity  of  putting  him- 
self right  with  her  slipping  away.  If  she  should 

see  her  father  first Yet  it  seemed  impossible 

to  speak. 

"  Oh,  I  say,"  he  managed  to  murmur  huskily, 


292  NEIGHBORS 

as  they  reached  her  own  gate,  a  short  distance 
from  Miss  Malvina's. 

"  Bon  soir"  said  Madeleine  sweetly.  "  Qweek 
I  make  track  for  'ome." 

"  Not  yet — please !    I  must  speak  to  you." 

The  girl  paused,  with  the  tentative  air  of  a 
bird  on  a  windswept  bough. 

"  Oh,  Madeleine,  I  love  you — and  I  have  told 

your  father.    But  he — but  I •   Wait !  you  must 

listen.    I  have  something  more  to  tell  you." 

He  strove  boldly  to  detain  her;  but  she  shut 
the  gate  between  them. 

"  I  'ave  now  to  'urry,"  she  said,  retreating 
from  his  questing  hand.  "  You  'ear  zat  horloge 
say  nine  heures?  " 

There  was  no  denying  the  brazen  clang  of  the 
town  clock. 

'  You'd  better  not  go  in  to  your  father  till 
you've  heard  what  I  have  to  say,"  he  sent  after 
her  desperately.  "  You'll  be  sorry  if  you  do." 

" Bienf    Qweek  you  tell;  I  wait  one  minute." 

"  Madeleine — don't  be  so  cruel.  If  you  knew 
how  I  love  you!  " 

"  Eet  ees  mos'  extraordinaire — zis  lo-ve.  .    .   . 
I  lo-ve — you  lo-ve — 'e  lo-ove — like  leqon  in  gram- 
maire  Anglaise.    Me — I  not  like  to  es-tudy  'er— 
non! " 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  tantalizing  laugh. 


NEIGHBORS  293 

"  Madeleine,  why  did  you  allow  that  fellow 
with  two  names  to  walk  home  with  you  last 
night?"  demanded  Mr.  Hobbs,  in  a  tone  which 
he  vainly  strove  to  make  elderly  and  impersonal. 
"  Really,  that  sort  of  thing  won't  do." 

"W'ynot,  pi-ease?" 

"  Because Can't  you  understand  that  a 

man  who  deceives  his  employers  by  using  an  alias 
isn't  to  be  trusted?  .  .  .  Especially  when  he's  a 
German — and  in  a  munitions  factory." 

"  'E  ees  not  German !  'Arry — 'e  ees  Ameri- 
caine — vary  much  star  an'  stripe,  zat  'Arry.  You 
zink  I  am  bebe?" 

"  So  you  call  him  Harry,"  commented  Mr. 
Hobbs  grimly.  "Why  not  Heinrich?  That's 
his  real  name — Heinrich  Schwartz!  " 

"  An'  'is  ozzer  name — pi-ease?  " 

"  Le  Noir.  The  fellow  actually  has  the  impu- 
dence to  call  himself  Le  Noir  at  the  Plant.  .  .  . 
Of  course,  I  told  your  father.  I  had  to  do  it. 
.  .  .  Can't  you  see?  Schwartz  may  be  a  dan- 
gerous fellow." 

Young  Kitchener  Hobbs'  voice  shook  with  two- 
fold passion:  Madeleine,  illusive  as  mist,  seemed 
about  to  vanish  into  the  night. 

"Hear  me  out!"  he  called  after  her.  .  .  . 
"You  shall!" 

"  Vary  much  I  'ear  you;  Mees  Malvina  an'  my 


294  NEIGHBORS 

fat'er,  aussi)  so  loud  you  holler.  Me — I  am  not 
deaf  's  pos'." 

"  But  you  seem  so  far  away.  .  .  .  Listen, 
Madeleine — it  is  because  I  love  you — because  I 
want  you  to  be  my  wife — I  can't  bear  to  see  you 
deceived  by " 

She  was  gone.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of  it. 
The  door  opened,  showing  an  oblong  of  yellow 
lamplight;  then  closed.  For  an  irresolute  min- 
ute he  stood  staring  at  the  little  old  house  be- 
neath its  canopy  of  swaying  trees.  Suppose  he 
should  storm  that  closed  door — should  insist 
upon  being  heard — in  French,  in  English  or  in 
the  absurd  patois  Madeleine  chose  to  speak? 
.  .  .  After  all,  what  more  could  he  say?  He 
had  at  least  made  his  motives  clear.  And  from 
his  present  intrenched  position  as  the  declared 
lover  of  Madeleine  he  would  not  easily  be  dis- 
lodged. To  Harry  Schwartz  he  gave  but  a  single 
disdainful  thought:  "  He  is  the  sort  of  bounder," 
said  Kitchener  Hobbs,  "  who  attempts  to  cover 
his  misdeeds  with  the  stars  and  stripes  and  calls 
himself  an  American  I  " 


XXVI 

MRS.  PETTIBONE  had  just  taken  up  her 
child  from  his  afternoon  nap,  in  the 
moist,  pink,  entirely  adorable  condition 
peculiar  to  a  baby  going  on  seven  months.  After 
she  had  kissed,  cuddled,  and  cooed  over  him  in 
a  hopelessly  old-fashioned  manner,  she  knocked 
on  the  study  door.  Mrs.  Pettibone  had  never 
given  up  this  modest  custom,  when  thus  intruding 
upon  her  husband's  solitude.  He  did  not  at  once 
answer;  and  boldly — very  boldly — his  son  upon 
her  arm,  she  repeated  her  summons. 

;'  Why  don't  you  walk  right  in,  Miss 
Philura  ?  "  demanded  Mr.  Pettibone's  laughing 
voice  from  within. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  blushed.  She  always  blushed 
when  he  called  her  Miss  Philura,  thus  reminding 
her  of  all  the  sweet  and  wonderful  happenings 
of  a  not  distant  past. 

"  I  wanted  you  to  see  him,  Silas,"  she  said. 
"  He's  wonderful  today !  And  you  know,  Silas, 
he'll  never  be  just  six  months  and  four  days  old 
again." 

295 


296  NEIGHBORS 

"  True,"  admitted  Mr.  Pettibone.  "  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it  in  that  way  before." 

"I  think  of  it  every  day,"  she  sighed:  "he's 
growing  up  so  fast,  Silas." 

"  But  we  want  him  to  grow  up,  don't  we?  We 
wouldn't  like  to  see  him  atrophied  in  babyhood, 
would  we?  " 

"  Of  course  not!  but  he's  so  sweet  just  as  he 
is.  ...  Look  at  his  eyes,  Silas!  He's  looking 
at  you,  see !  he  wants  you  to  take  him  and  play 
with  him." 

Mr.  Pettibone  promptly  abandoned  Volume 
IV  of  a  series  of  commentaries  on  the  Pauline 
Epistles  in  favor  of  the  baby,  who  began  to 
gurgle  and  kick  with  delight  as  his  father  held 
out  his  arms  for  him. 

"  Just  six  months  and  four  days  old  this  morn- 
ing!" repeated  Mrs.  Pettibone,  gazing  at  her 
treasures  in  the  shabby  armchair  with  unconcealed 
delight.  "  I  can  hardly  believe  it,  Silas.  ...  If 

any  one  had  told  me  five  years  ago Hark! 

Was  that  the  door-bell?  It  doesn't  ring  very 
well  lately.  .  .  .." 

He  heard  her  voice  in  greeting,  which  seemed 
to  convey  a  note  of  surprise.  Then  the  parlor 
door  closed.  Mr.  Pettibone  gazed  in  some  per- 
plexity at  his  son.  Surely,  it  was  a  man's  voice 
he  had  heard  in  the  passage,  ,  .  .  Five  minutes 


NEIGHBORS  297 

elapsed  and  still  she  did  not  return.  The  baby, 
tiring  of  the  minister's  silver  watch  and  of  his 
persistently  offered  key-ring — which  the  infant 
finally  cast  upon  the  floor  with  a  shrill  little  yelp 
of  displeasure — was  becoming  somewhat  unin- 
teresting as  compared  with  Volume  IV  of  the 
Pauline  Commentaries.  Mr.  Pettibone  paced  the 
length  of  his  study  several  times,  inanely  repeat- 
ing "Pretty — pretty!"  in  the  presence  of  his 
rows  of  theological  books.  The  infant  quite  evi- 
dently failed  to  appreciate  this  form  of  enter- 
tainment, for  he  began  to  howl  lustily.  The  in- 
fant's clothing,  moreover,  displayed  a  strange 
tendency  to  creep  up  about  his  ears;  in  vain  the 
distracted  Mr.  Pettibone  strove  to  pat  and  pull 
these  inchoate  garments  into  place,  as  he  had 
seen  his  wife  do  a  score  of  times.  Finally  in 
despair  he  deposited  the  small  demoralized 
bundle  of  muslin  and  flannel  on  the  floor,  and 
stood  looking  down  at  it  dubiously.  The  min- 
ister could  think  of  no  adequate  reason  for  the 
infant's  displeasure,  but  there  appeared  to  be 
little  doubt  of  it  in  view  of  his  screams. 

Mrs.  Pettibone  opened  the  door  upon  his 
discomfiture. 

"  Why,  Silas  Pettibone ! "  she  exclaimed, 
"  what  are  you  doing  to  the  baby?  Come  here  to 
mother,  darling!  " 


298  NEIGHBORS 

There  was  implied  censure  in  her  voice  and 
the  way  in  which  she  skillfully  righted  the  in- 
fant's garments  and  hushed  his  abominable  cry- 
ing, which  was  not  meekly  to  be  borne. 

"  I  was  not  doing  anything  to  the  baby,  my 
dear  Philura,"  protested  Mr.  Pettibone,  with  un- 
wonted spirit.  "  I  merely  held  on  to  him  as  long 
as  I  was  able,  and  then " 

"  Never  mind,  Silas,"  said  his  wife,  with  the 
new  and  superior  forbearance  he  had  noted  in 
her  manner  of  late.  "  Please  come  and  speak  to 
Mr.  Desaye.  I  have  been  talking  with  him — he 
wanted  to  see  me;  but  I  thought  perhaps  we 
ought  to  consult  you.  .  .  .  Besides,  I  heard  the 
baby." 

Mr.  Pettibone  gazed  at  his  wife  with  honest 
amazement.  She  had  "  thought  perhaps  " — well, 
well! 

M.  Desaye,  in  an  immaculate  frock-coat  and 
striped  trousers,  a  black  pearl  in  his  scarf  and  a 
flower  in  his  buttonhole,  presented  a  pleasant 
contrast  to  the  somewhat  disheveled  minister. 

"The  baby,"  said  Mrs.  Pettibone,  "wanted 
me.  .  .  .  Now  I  think  we  can  go  on  with  our 
little  talk.  Possibly  Mr.  Pettibone  can  advise 
you  better  than  I  about  your  daughter — though 
I  am  sure  everything  will  be  all  right." 

"  My    Madeleine    'as    no    mot'er,"    said    M. 


NEIGHBORS  299 

Desaye  gravely:  "'ad  it  been  God's  will  zat 
madame,  my  wife,  survive  to  now  eet  would  not 
'ave  been  necessaire  to  consult  es-tranger.  I 
regret  ze  gr-rand  trouble  I  make  wiz  you;  but 

eet  ees  impossible  to  avoid You  un'erstan' 

me,  is  eet  not?  " 

u  Harry  Schwartz  has  been  making  love  to 
Madeleine,"  explained  Mrs.  Pettibone,  very  pink 
and  smiling.  "  I've  been  telling  Mr.  Desaye  that 
Harry  is  a  splendid  boy;  we've  always  known 
him.  .  .  .  He  thought  Harry  was  a  German 
spy!" 

"A  German  spy?"  repeated  Mr.  Pettibone; 
"oh,  no — no,  indeed!  Let  me  assure  you,  sir: 
Harry  Schwartz  is  one  of  our  own  Sunday-School 
boys.  He  is  above  suspicion  of  anything  like 
that." 

"  But — 'e  ees  of  German  bl-lood,"  persisted 
the  Frenchman,  polite  but  unyielding.  "  You  will 
of  your  kin'ness  pardon  me  eef  I  say  zat  ees  for 
me  suffisamment.  Beyond,  he  'as  also  deceive 
me:  I  zink  'im  Huguenot,  name  of  Le  Noir.  I 

fin'  'im  German,  name  of  Schwartz What 

will  you?  " 

M.  Desaye's  eyes,  shoulders,  and  outspread 
hands  were  eloquent  of  disbelief:  but  his  expres- 
sion suddenly  changed  to  one  of  amazement  and 
alarm. 


300  NEIGHBORS 

"  Ecoutez!  "  he  exclaimed  sharply,  "  what  ees 
zat?" 

All  three  occupants  of  the  parsonage  parlor 
sprang  to  their  feet:  That  loud,  booming  ex- 
plosion which  had  shaken  the  old  house  from 
rafter  to  cellar — what  was  it? 

Mr.  Pettibone  was  the  first  to  recover  himself. 

"  I  am  told  they  are  at  work  constructing  a 
new  state  road  some  miles  away,"  he  began;  "it 
was  probably  necessary  blasting.  I  believe " 

But  again  the  terrible  sound  interrupted  the 
minister's  explanation.  Then  followed  many 
short  and  sharp  explosions,  like  the  discharge  of 
volleys  of  musketry. 

"  Oh !  it  must  be  something  awful !  "  mur- 
mured Mrs.  Pettibone,  clasping  her  baby  closer. 

M.  Desaye  stood  with  bent  head,  the  frown 
with  which  he  had  listened  to  the  minister's  some- 
what vague  defense  of  Harry  Schwartz  deepen- 
ing between  his  eyes.  The  sound  of  the  ex- 
plosions continued:  now  heavy,  dull,  shattering 
noises;  again  that  sudden  bursting  crackle  like 
machine  guns  in  action.  .  .  .  Then  he  spoke  one 
French  word,  which  the  world  pronounces  as  it 
will: 

"Munitions!" 

The  two  men,  moved  by  a  single  impulse, 
rushed  out  of  doors.  But  Mrs.  Pettibone,  her 


NEIGHBORS  301 

baby  in  her  arms,  hurriedly  climbed  the  stair  to 
the  nursery.  The  terrible  sounds  continued,  but 
in  this  quiet  sunny  room,  with  its  small,  pendant 
garments  and  its  white  furniture,  one  somehow 
felt  safe  from  immediate  catastrophe.  She  had 
not  comprehended  M.  Desaye's  laconic  explana- 
tion, and  in  her  confusion  she  began  mechanically 
to  gather  the  baby's  garments  into  a  neat  bundle. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  they  would  be  obliged  to  fly. 
Other  women  the  world  over  had  been  forced  into 
the  open,  their  babies  in  their  arms.  .  .  .  Some- 
thing terrible  and  unexpected  was  happening. 
She  must  be  ready.  .  .  .  Oh,  yes,  and  extra  socks 
and  handkerchiefs  for  Mr.  Pettibone — and  would 
he  need  his  pajamas?  She  strove  to  think  calmly. 
.  .  .  Where  was  the  baby's  talcum  powder?  A 
sound  of  trampling  feet  on  the  stair  mingled  with 
a  fusillade  of  frightful  explosions. 

"  Well,  fer  th'  land  sake,  Mis'  Pettibone !  "  ex- 
claimed the  strident  voice  of  Mrs.  Wessells,  from 
the  door.  "Ain't  this  th'  livin'  limit!  I  was 
a-washin'  t'  home  t'day — this  bein'  a  Thursday; 
an'  I  hed  m'  han's  in  th'  suds,  when  in  runs 
Georgie :  '  Ma,'  says  he,  *  th'  works  is  blowin' 
up,'  he  says.  '  What  works?  '  I  says,  '  fer  good- 
ness sake,  Georgie ! '  '  Why,  them  bomb  works 
out  b'  th'  swamp,  ma,'  he  says.  .  .  .  He's  ont' 
everything  my  Georgie  is.  ...  I  tell  you,  Mis' 


302  NEIGHBORS 

Pettibone,  th'  can't  nothin'  take  place  without  him 
knowin'  it,  first  off.  He's  th'  smartest  boy — our 
Georgie.  .  .  .  Why,  what  'n  creation  you  doin' — 
packin'  up?  'Tain't  goin'  t'  do  no  great  harm 
in  th'  village,  Mis'  Pettibone.  But  I'll  bet  th' 
swamp  '11  be  chuck  full  o'  r'mains — after  th' 
bombs  is  all  fired  off.  .  .  .  Here  they  come  now, 
a-runnin'  like  a  pack  o'  lun'tics!  Look,  Mis' 
Pettibone!  fer  pity  sake,  jes'  see  'em!  " 

The  minister's  wife  needed  no  second  bidding; 
the  sound  of  hundreds  of  running  feet  drew  her 
to  the  window.  Workmen  from  the  plant,  flee- 
ing from  before  the 'terrific  bombardment  meant 
for  others,  were  hurrying  past  the  house  in  small 
irregular  squads.  A  confused  rabble  of  women 
and  crying  children  bringing  up  the  rear.  They 
had  passed  the  danger  zone,  but  they  were  still 
running,  their  eyes  fixed  and  staring,  their  feet 
striking  the  pavement  with  dull  heavy  thuds. 

"  Well,  I  guess  I'd  better  be  goin'  along,"  said 
Mrs.  Wessells,  gathering  her  shawl  under  her 
chin  with  an  air  of  keen  enjoyment.  "  Thinks 
s'  I,  I'll  stop  in  first  off  an'  see  if  anythin'  hit  th' 
pars'tiage,  yit.  .  .  .  Land!  if  there  ain't  Harry 
Schwartz  scorchin'  along  on  his  bike!  I  didn't 
know  as  he  worked  out  there;  did  you?  But  I 
guess  he  must  of;  his  cloe's  is  all  black." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  turned  from  the  window,  her 


NEIGHBORS  303 

face  pale  and  anxious.  She  was  recalling  con- 
fusedly certain  scraps  of  her  conversation  with 
M.  Desaye.  He  had  insisted  that  Harry 
Schwartz  was  working  at  the  munitions  plant 
under  an  assumed  name.  .  .  .  But  it  must  be  time 
for  baby's  bottle;  little  whimpering  sounds  from 
the  crib  reminded  her  of  the  paramount  fact. 
She  followed  Mrs.  Wessells  downstairs.  In  the 
hall  Mr.  Pettibone  was  talking  with  two  or  three 
excited  neighbors;  the  house  seemed  suddenly  full 
of  people.  .  .  .  The  baby  was  crying  upstairs. 
.  .  .  Mrs.  Pettibone  found  herself  trying  to  com- 
fort a  distracted  woman,  who  declared  that  her 
son  had  been  killed.  .  .  .  And  still  the  terrible 
sounds  of  exploding  shells  rent  the  air.  .  .  . 

No  one  in  Innisfield  learned  the  full  extent  of 
the  disaster  that  day  nor  the  next.  The  detona- 
tions continued  fitfully  during  the  afternoon  and 
well  on  into  the  night,  when  a  dull  red  glow 
streaked  with  brilliant  arcs  of  light  revealed  the 
spot  where  the  munitions  works  had  stood. 
Mounted  police  from  Boston  and  fire  engines 
from  near-by  towns  invaded  the  streets,  and  by 
daybreak  a  tentative  effort  was  made  to  round 
up  the  workmen.  It  was  thought  at  first  that 
many  were  missing;  but  as  the  hours  passed  it 
appeared  that  several  who  had  run  blindly  from 
the  scene  of  the  disaster  had  become  entangled 


3o4  NEIGHBORS 

in  the  more  distant  fastnesses  of  the  swamp,  from 
which  they  emerged  covered  with  slime,  their 
clothing  torn  to  shreds,  but  otherwise  unin- 
jured. .  .  . 

On  Sunday  morning  Mr.  Pettibone,  pale  but 
calm,  in  the  face  of  a  large  and  excited  congrega- 
tion, rendered  heartfelt  thanks  to  God  for  the 
almost  miraculous  preservation  of  human  life  dur- 
ing the  late  terrifying  calamity.  That  not  one 
of  the  hundreds  of  workmen  employed  had  met 
with  sudden  death  was  due  to  the  extraordinary 
presence  of  mind  and  bravery  of  one  young  man 
— so  Mr.  Pettibone  informed  the  Almighty,  and 
incidentally  his  congregation.  After  a  time- 
honored  custom  "  the  long  prayer  "  was  devoted 
to  a  masterly  recapitulation  of  recent  events, 
previously  unknown  to  mortals,  but  without  rea- 
sonable doubt  stored  up  in  the  divine  intelligence 
from  the  foundation  of  the  world. 

At  its  close  Mrs.  Buckthorn  was  seen  to  nudge 
her  neighbor,  Miss  Electa  Pratt: 

"Who'd  he  mean?"  she  whispered:  "what 
young  man?  " 

"  I  guess  it  must  'a'  been  that  young  Hobbs," 
Miss  Electa  whispered  back  from  behind  her 
hymn-book;  "  they  say  he  telephoned  all  over  the 
plant  after  Sadie  Banks  fainted  dead  away,  settin' 
in  her  chair.  After  he'd  got  everybody  on  the 


NEIGHBORS  305 

run  he  drug  her  out  an'  r'vived  her  an'  she  come 
home  's  lively  's  a  cricket.  But  he  didn't  come 
home  for  mos'  two  hours.  Most  everybody 
thought  he  was  killed.  His  mother  took  on  till 
you  c'd  hear  her  way  down  in  th'  store." 

As  these  circumstantial  details  were  already 
known  to  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  she  listened  without 
comment,  her  large  countenance  composed  to  a 
pious  rigidity  befitting  the  time  and  occasion.  It 
was  not  until  the  benediction  had  been  pronounced 
and  the  organ  burst  forth  in  vague  triumph  that 
she  turned  again  to  Miss  Pratt. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said  in  a  hollow  voice,  "  that 
you've  heard  the  ter-rible  intelligence  about 
Har-ry  Schwartz?" 

"  My  gracious  me !  "  cried  Miss  Pratt,  pausing 
round-eyed  in  the  act  of  buttoning  her  jacket. 
"Was  he  killed?" 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  shook  her  head. 

"  I  al-most  wish  I  c'd  say  *  th'  Lord's  will  be 
done '  t'  that  question,  Electa,"  she  syllabled 
slowly.  "No,  he  ain't  dead:  he's  been  a-rested 
an'  he's  in — jail" 

"  Harry  Schwartz — arrested!  in  jail!  " 
shrilled  Miss  Pratt.  "Why,  I  run  in  t'  Mis' 
Schwartzes  only  las'  night  after  supper  to  borrow 
a  cup  of  sugar,  an'  she  didn't  say  anything  about 
Harry's  being  arrested." 


3o6  NEIGHBORS 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  continued  solemnly  to  oscillate 
her  massive  headgear.  Out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye  she  beheld  Mrs.  Obed  Salter,  Mrs.  Under- 
taker Beels,  and  Mrs.  Henry  Pratt  advanc- 
ing down  the  aisle:  they  had  not  heard  the 
news. 

"  No,  Electa,"  she  said  distinctly,  "  Mrs. 
Schwartz  was  not  a-ware  of  her  son's  dis-grace 
at  that  hour.  I  understan'  Har-ry  was  pre-parin' 
to  re-tire  for  the  night,  when " 

"  I  s'pose  they  had  to  put  reg'lar  han'cuffs 
ont'  him,"  offered  Miss  Pratt.  She  also  had 
noted  the  approaching  bevy  of  ladies,  and 
framed  her  comment  thus  dramatically  with 
purpose. 

44  Fer  pity  sake,  what's  happened  now?"  de- 
manded Mrs.  Salter  excitedly.  "  Who's  been 
han'cuffed?  I  ain't  heard  a  word." 

"  Nor  me,  neither,"  chimed  in  Mrs.  Pratt. 

Mrs.  Undertaker  Beels,  as  became  her  hus- 
band's gloomy  trade,  preserved  a  non-committal 
silence.  But  her  eyes  under  their  black  lashes 
were  active  and  observant. 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  sighed  heavily. 

"  I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  an  air  of  reluct- 
ance, u  that  we  can  hardly  hope  to  keep  the 
matter  to  ourselves — much  as  we  should  be  g-lad 
to  spare  the  young  man's  family.  .  .  .  They  do 


NEIGHBORS  307 

say  his  pictur',  took  in  jail,  will  be  in  all  th' 
papers  t'morrow.  .  .  .  My !  My !  when  I  think 
how,  durin'  our  late  bl-lessed  r'vival,  I  set  an' 
watched  that  young  man — an'  him  a-lookin'  seri- 
ous fer  th'  first  time  in  his  life;  an'  of  how  I  went 
pers'nally  an'  labored  with  him,  face  t'  face,  doin' 
m'  prayerful  best  to  dror  him  t'  th'  mourner's 
pew;  an'  how " 

But  the  flood  of  question  and  comment  which 
had  been  gathering  in  force  could  no  longer  be 
stayed ;  even  the  taciturn  Mrs.  Beels  insisted  upon 
being  heard. 

"  George  Beels  knew  of  Harry  Schwartz's  ar- 
rest early  this  morning,"  she  stated.  "  Mr. 
Schwartz  was  around  trying  to  get  bail." 

"  What  'd  he  do?  "  demanded  the  other  women 
in  chorus,  turning  with  one  accord  to  Mrs.  Beels. 
"  Why  did  they  arrest  him?  " 

"  Ladies !  "  spoke  Mrs.  Buckthorn  loudly  and 
authoritatively,  "  if  you'll  listen  to  me " 

But  Mrs.  Beels  triumphantly  held  the  floor. 
She  could  be  depended  upon  to  be  brief  and  to 
the  point,  without  reservation  or  rhetorical 
embellishment. 

'  They  say  he  blew  up  the  plant,"  she  said 
bluntly.  "  But  I  know  he  didn't;  so  there! " 

"La-dies!"  intoned  Mrs.  Buckthorn,  "/  can 
tell  you  something  awful,  if  you'll  pay  attention 


3o8  NEIGHBORS 

to  me:  that  poor,  mis-guided  young  man — who 
will  undoubtedly  be  hung  in  the  near  future — 
was  a-rested  because " 

Mr.  Pettibone's  tall  black-coated  figure  sud- 
denly appeared  in  the  center  of  the  excited  group. 
Not  one  of  the  women  had  noticed  his  approach, 
but  its  effect  was  magical.  Even  Mrs.  Buckthorn 
became  silent  for  a  moment.  In  that  moment  the 
minister  spoke: 

"  I  wish  you  would  all  disperse  quietly  to  your 
homes,"  he  said  in  low,  even  tones.  "  I  see  you 
have  heard  of  the  terrible  accusation  which  has 
been  lodged  against  a  young  man  who  has  grown 
up  in  our  midst — one  of  our  own  children.  I 
believe  him  to  be  innocent  of  the  horrible  crime 
laid  at  his  door,  and  until  he  has  been  proven 
guilty  he  is  entitled  to  that  belief  by  the  rulings 
of  common  law." 

Mrs.  Buckthorn  wagged  her  bonnet,  decorated 
with  a  plenitude  of  black  beads  as  hard  and  soul- 
less as  her  eyes. 

"  As  t'  that,  I  guess  each  an'  every  one  of  us 
is  en-titled  t'  our  private  o-pinion,  Mis-ter  Petti- 
bone,"  she  said  acidly.  "  An'  when  it  comes 
to " 

"  Let  me  implore  you  to  keep  that  opinion  as 
private  as  possible,  Mrs.  Buckthorn,"  interrupted 
the  minister. 


NEIGHBORS  309 

His  gaze,  anxious  and  troubled,  passed  quickly 
from  one  plump,  matronly  face  to  another;  then 
his  head  drooped. 

"  The  tide  of  public  opinion  seems  to  be  setting 
strongly  against  the  lad,"  he  said  slowly.  "  Let 
us  hope  that  the  members  of  this  church  will  en- 
tertain the  reasonable  doubt,  and  give  voice  to 
none  but  charitable  comments.  ...  Go  home,  I 
beg  of  you,  and  pray  that  the  truth  may  become 
speedily  apparent." 

The  rustle  of  Sabbath  skirts  and  the  sound  of 
hushed  footfalls  ceased  at  length,  and  silence, 
broken  only  by  the  sighing  of  the  wind,  brooded 
the  sanctuary.  Still  the  tall  spare  figure  of  the 
minister  stood  motionless,  his  hands  folded 
loosely  upon  the  pew-front. 

"  O  Lord,  thou  hast  been  our  dwelling-place 
in  all  generations :  before  the  mountains  were 
brought  forth,  or  ever  thou  hadst  formed  the 
earth  and  the  world — even  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting  thou  art  God!  " 

The  majestic  words  rose  to  his  lips  unbidden; 
in  them  was  the  strong  comfort  his  soul  craved: 
— "  even  from  everlasting  to  everlasting  thou 
art  God." 

As  he  passed,  at  length,  down  the  aisle  he 
almost  stumbled  upon  a  small  figure,  kneeling 
there  in  the  gloom  of  the  projecting  gallery.  The 


3io  NEIGHBORS 

next  instant  he  had  recognized  the  young  French 
girl,  Madeleine  Desaye,  her  face  stained  with 
weeping. 

«  Me— I  'ave  come,"  she  whispered,  "  to  pray 
le  bon  Dieti — for  'Any!  " 


XXVII 

HARRY  SCHWARTZ  sat  on  a  wooden 
bench  in  the  Innisfield  jail.  It  was  Sun- 
day: he  heard  the  church  bells  ringing. 
After  awhile  he  got  up  and  looked  out  of  the 
barred  window  high  up  in  the  wall.  People  were 
walking  along  the  streets.  At  first  he  did  not 
associate  himself  with  the  fact  that  nearly  every 
one  looked  up  at  the  jail  as  they  walked  along. 
Then  a  slow,  painful  crimson  surged  up  into 
his  brain,  forcing  the  tears  to  his  eyes.  He  went 
back  to  his  bench  and  sat  down.  It  seemed  a 
long  time  since  yesterday  morning.  .  .  .  He 
forced  himself  to  go  back  to  the  moment  when 
he  had  stood  by  the  kitchen  table  watching  his 
mother  cutting  sandwiches  for  his  lunch. 

"  Harry,"  she  said,  "  I  wish  you'd  give  up 
working  'way  out  there  at  the  munitions  plant. 
I  worry  about  you  dreadfully." 

14  Why  should  you  worry,  mother?  " 
It  was  a  comment  rather  than  a  question.    He 
knew  well  enough  why  his  mother  worried.     It 
had  all  been  talked  over  a  score  of  times  in  the 

311 


3i2  NEIGHBORS 

last  month.  But  while  she  spread  the  thick  slices 
of  home-made  bread  with  plenty  of  butter  and 
added  a  generous  filling  of  minced  chicken  she 
told  him  all  her  reasons  once  more.  .  .  .  Harry 
swallowed  childishly  as  he  remembered  how  good 
those  sandwiches  had  tasted  at  noon.  .  .  .  The 
conversation  ended  as  usual:  Harry  fastened  his 
lunch-box  to  the  handle  of  his  bicycle,  kissed  his 
mother  good-by,  and  sped  away.  He  intended 
to  stop  working  in  the  munitions  plant  as  soon 
as  his  building  lot  was  paid  for.  After  that  he 
could  borrow  the  money  to  build  his  home.  But 
in  the  meantime  his  weekly  pay  envelopes,  bearing 
the  name  Le  Noir,  worried  him.  At  least  once 
every  week — generally  on  pay  day — Harry  found 
himself  going  over  the  whole  matter  with  him- 
self: Le  Noir  was  merely  a  French  translation 
of  Schwartz;  he  meant  no  harm  by  accepting 
Madeleine's  smooth  substitute  for  his  harsh 
German  name.  He  did  his  work  honestly  and 
well.  What  possible  harm  could  there  be  in  the 
small  deception?  There  wasn't  any  harm  in  it! 
But  Harry  guessed  he'd  better  stop  working  at 
the  plant  before  long.  He  hated  to  have  his 
mother  worry.  Of  course  he  had  never  showed 
her  his  pay  envelope  with  the  name  Le  Noir  on 
it.  He  knew  about  what  she  would  say;  and 
yery  likely  she  would  cry,  which  was  worse.  .  .  . 


NEIGHBORS  313 

He  had  not  seen  Madeleine  since  the  night  he 
told  her  he  loved  her,  though  he  had  studied  his 
French  every  night  and  had  learned  the  inade- 
quate word  for  wife. 

He  got  up  from  his  bench  again  and  went  to 
the  window;  his  head  ached  when  he  thought  of 
Madeleine.  .  .  .  Looking  down  into  the  familiar 
street,  which  somehow  looked  unfamiliar  seen 
from  this  barred  window,  his  thoughts  went 
monotonously  on:  nothing  out  of  the  ordinary 
had  happened  till  afternoon.  Everybody  was 
working  as  usual.  He  saw  Hobbs  counting  shells 
about  half-past  one.  At  two  o'clock  he  met  him 
crossing  the  yard.  Harry  had  not  spoken  to 
Hobbs  since  the  night  of  the  revival.  .  .  .  Why 
should  he  speak  to  Hobbs?  The  fellow  owed 
him  an  apology.  ...  It  might  have  been  half  an 
hour  later  when  he  heard  a  slight  explosion  and 
saw  a  sudden  flare-up  of  brilliant  light  in  the 
filling-shed.  He  was  on  his  way  to  investigate 
the  reason  for  this  when  somebody  shouted  to 
him  to  run.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  yard  was  full  of 
men,  running,  cursing,  shouting.  Harry  looked 
around  for  Hobbs:  to  his  surprise  he  found  him- 
self thinking  of  Hobbs  with  keen  anxiety.  Then 
came  the  first  heavy  explosion.  Harry  jumped 
upon  his  wheel,  which  he  had  left  by  the  gate,  and 
rode  swiftly  toward  home.  Something  hit  him  in 


NEIGHBORS 

the  back  of  the  head  as  he  went,  but  he  did  not 
notice  it:  he  was  thinking  of  his  mother,  who 
would  be  "  worrying  dreadfully."  He  must  let 
her  know  he  was  all  right.  .  .  . 

The  church  bells  had  stopped  ringing  by  now. 
Harry  wondered  dully  if  his  father  and  mother 
had  gone  to  church.  He  pictured  them  there  in 
the  fourth  pew  from  the  pulpit,  where  he  seemed 
to  see  himself,  a  very  little  boy  with  yellow  curls 
on  his  shoulders,  looking  at  Deacon  Scrimger's 
shining  bald  head  two  seats  in  front.  Sometimes, 
when  the  sermon  was  long,  his  mother  would  give 
him  a  pink  and  white  peppermint  drop  out  of  her 
pocket.  He  would  grow  very  sleepy  after  the 
peppermint  was  eaten.  How  comfortable  his 
mother's  smooth  silken  lap  felt  as  he  laid  his 
head  upon  it!  After  that  the  preacher's  voice 
seemed  to  come  peacefully  from  a  great  way  off: 
then  it  ceased  altogether.  ...  A  queer  hard 
lump  in  Harry's  throat  ached  intolerably  as  he 
thought  about  it.  ...  His  mother  had  cried 
when  they  took  him  away  last  night.  They  had 
come  for  him  just  as  he  was  going  to  bed  after 
the  "  nice  warm  bath  "  she  insisted  upon.  The 
covers  of  his  bed  were  turned  down  and  the 
breeze  from  the  open  windows  fluttered  the  mus- 
lin curtains. 

"  I'm  glad  it  isn't  any  worse,"  he  told  her, 


NEIGHBORS  315 

when  she  exclaimed  over  the  matted  hair  at  the 
back  of  his  head. 

He  had  forgotten  all  about  the  something  that 
hit  him  on  his  way  out  of  the  plant.  His  mother 
called  his  father  to  look  at  the  tiny  scalp  wound. 
She  wondered  if  there  ought  to  be  a  stitch  taken, 
and  should  they  call  the  doctor?  It  was  just  then 
that  the  door-bell  rang  sharply.  .  .  . 

The  sound  of  a  key  grating  in  the  lock 
roused  him.  He  turned  his  head  and  saw  his 
father  coming  into  his  cell,  followed  by  an- 
other man. 

'  Well,  Harry,  my  boy,"  said  his  father,  with 
an  affectation  of  great  cheerfulness,  "  how  did  you 
make  out  last  night?  " 

Harry  made  no  answer.  He  was  looking  at 
the  other  man.  He  had  known  him  by  sight  for 
a  long  time.  The  man's  name  was  Calvin  S. 
Northrup.  He  was  a  lawyer.  Mr.  Northrup 
returned  Harry's  look  sharply.  Then  he  rubbed 
his  hands,  which  were  dry  and  bony. 

"  A  bad  business — a  very  bad  business,"  he 
said,  and  glanced  around  the  cell.  .  .  .  "Hey? 
Water  coming  in  through  the  ceiling !  Hr-rumpp  ! 
Roof  wants  repairing.  .  .  .  Well,  now,  let's  look 
into  this  business." 

He  sat  down  on  the  wooden  chair  and  again 
stared  at  Harry. 


3i6  NEIGHBORS 

"  I've  engaged  Mr.  Northrup  to  defend  you, 
Harry,"  explained  Mr.  Schwartz. 

"  Just  so,  just  so,"  confirmed  the  lawyer. 
"  Now  then,  don't  incriminate  yourself,  young 
man!" 

He  wagged  a  long,  yellow  finger  at  Harry. 
"  Don't  forget  what  I  tell  you.    The  prosecu- 
tion will  likely  put  you  through  the  third  degree. 
I'm  told  they're  preparing  their  case  for  the  pre- 
liminary hearing,  which  may  take  place  tomorrow. 

But  until  you're  proved  guilty " 

"  I'm  not  guilty,"  said  Harry,  with  some  vio- 
lence. "  I  didn't  blow  up  the  plant.  Why  should 
I?" 

"  That's  just  the  line  of  defense  Calvin  S. 
Northrup  intends  to  follow,"  approved  the  law- 
yer. "  Why  should  you  blow  up  the  plant?  Ex- 
actly! Hum — er — now  you'll  have  to  be  careful 
what  you  say.  They'll  try  to  catch  you  with  all 
sorts  of  tricky  questions.  They'll  endeavor  to  mix 
you  up,  bewilder  you;  but  you  just  stick  to  that 
one  statement:  You  don't  know  anything  about 
the  cause  of  the  explosion.  You  went  to  your 
work,  as  usual:  always  faithful.  Didn't  hear  or 

see  anything  out  of  the  common  till " 

"  But  I  did,"  interrupted  Harry.    "  I  saw- 
Mr.  Northrup's  active  eyebrows  and  waving 
forefinger  halted  Harry's  eager  explanation. 


NEIGHBORS  317 

"Why  shouldn't  I  tell?"  asked  Harry,  bewil- 
dered. "  I  saw " 

"  Young  man,  you  didn't  see  anything  and  you 
didn't  hear  anything  until  after — mark  my  words 
carefully — until  after  you  left  the  plant.  You 
got  out  at  the  first  alarm.  Now  then  paste  that 
in  your  hat." 

Mr.  Northrup  wrinkled  his  lean  face  into  the 
semblance  of  a  smile. 

"  Fact  is,"  he  said,  sinking  his  voice  to  a 
whisper,  "  you've  got  yourself  into  a  devilish  fix, 
young  fellow.  I'd  a  leetle  rather  your  father  had 
gone  elsewhere  for  counsel.  But,  seeing  your 
family  has  been  resident  in  our  town  for  a  con- 
siderable while,  and  you  yourself  bear  a  good 
general  reputation,  Calvin  S.  Northrup  has  un- 
dertaken the  case.  But  you'll  have  to  follow  his 
advice  to  the  letter,  or  he'll  drop  it." 

Harry's  father  wiped  the  perspiration  from  his 
forehead. 

"  Guess  you'd  better  do  as  he  says,  Harry,"  he 
said  huskily.  "  Mr.  Calvin  S.  Northrup  ought  to 
know  what's " 

"  Calvin  S.  Northrup  does  know! "  exploded 
the  lawyer,  expanding  his  narrow  chest.  "  My 
experience  as  a  criminal  lawyer  stands  behind 
every  word  I  have  said.  .  .  .  Let  me  tell  you: 
last  year  I  was  sent  for  from  Boston  to  defend 


3i8  NEIGHBORS 

a  young  man  accused  of  murder  in  the  first  de- 
gree. I  advised  him,  as  I  have  advised  you.  .  .  . 
Did  he  profit  by  it?  No!  " 

"Did  you — get  him  off,  sir?"  inquired  Mr. 
Schwartz,  after  a  heavy  pause. 

Mr.  Northrup  eyed  his  client  with  a  frown. 

"  The  accused  was  as  guilty  as  hell,"  he  stated. 
"  I  saw  it  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on  him.  It 
stuck  out  all  over  him;  and  he  would  talk  about 
himself.  Couldn't  stop  him.  .  ..  .  Executed  last 
week.  Not  my  fault." 

Mr.  Northrup  glanced  sidewise  at  Harry,  as 
if  to  note  the  effect  of  his  words. 

"  Now  maybe  you'll  watch  your  step,"  he  added 
jocularly.  u  Of  course  that  alias  of  yours  is  a 
bad  bit  of  evidence,  and  I'm  afraid  we  can't  dis- 
prove it:  name  on  company's  blanks  in  your  own 
handwriting:  employment  clerk  ready  to  swear 
it  was  signed  in  his  presence.  .  .  .  Clerk  might 
be  proved  insane;  though  I  shall,  if  forced  to  it, 
prove  you  insane.  .  .  .  Insanity  in  the  family, 
and  that  sort  of  thing.  Mind  you  don't  deny  it, 
either  of  you." 

Harry's  face  reddened. 

"  See  here !  "  he  said  thickly,  "  you've  got  an- 
other guess  coming  about  me.  I  didn't  blow  up 
the  plant;  but  I  did  sign  under  the  name  of  Le 
Noir.  I  did  it  because  they  weren't  taking  on 


NEIGHBORS  319 

Germans.  I'm  an  American,  but  I've  got  a  Ger- 
man name.  .  .  .  You  may  as  well  give  up  my 
case  right  now.  I  shan't  try  to  lie  out  of  any- 
thing I've  done." 

"  Harry,"  said  Mr.  Schwartz  in  a  broken  voice, 
"  you  ought  to  be  thinking  of  your  poor  mother. 
She — she's  sick,  Harry.  I  didn't  tell  you  before, 
but " 

The  young  man  turned  violently  upon  his 
father. 

"You — you  think  I  did  it?"  he  cried  in  a 
shocked  voice. 

"  Come,  come,  my  lad,  don't  get  excited,"  ex- 
horted Mr.  Northrup.  "  We'll  do  the  best  we  can 
for  you,  depend  upon  it.  But  we're  going  to  leave 
you  to  think  it  over;  yes,  to — er — reconsider. 
You're  no  fool,  I  can  see  that.  .  .  .  Now,  Mr. 
Schwartz,  we've  plenty  to  do.  Nothing  to  be 
gained  by  further  talk  with  the  accused." 

Harry  did  not  look  at  his  father,  as  the  two 
men  turned  to  go  out.  .  .  .  The  key  grated  in  the 
lock.  It  seemed  to  be  grating  in  his  soul.  He 
realized  now  that  half  unconsciously  he  had  been 
waiting  for  his  father's  strong  interference:  of 
course  everybody  would  know  he  was  innocent  of 
the  monstrous  charge  against  him.  He  would  go 
home  to  his  Sunday  dinner,  somewhat  soiled  with 
the  disgrace  of  his  night  in  jail,  somewhat  sheep- 


320  NEIGHBORS 

ish  under  the  curious  eyes  of  the  neighbors,  but 
ready  to  laugh  ruefully  over  the  unhappy  blunder 
of  the  local  police.  The  lump  in  his  throat  hurt 
him  cruelly  as  he  thought  of  his  mother.  He 
wondered  dully  if  she  had  found  his  pay  envelope, 
marked  with  the  name  Le  Noir.  Why  hadn't  he 
told  her  all  about  it? 

The  town  clock  struck  twelve,  after  a  dreary 
hour  spent  in  pacing  up  and  down  the  narrow 
limits  of  his  cell.  The  jailer  brought  him  his  din- 
ner on  a  battered  tin  plate.  Somebody — it  might 
have  been  another  prisoner — tossed  in  a  news- 
paper. It  contained  an  account  of  the  explosion. 
Harry  saw  a  villainous  picture  of  himself  under 
big  head-lines :  "  German  plot  unearthed !  Chief 
conspirator  working  in  Merks  Plant  under  as- 
sumed name!  Other  arrests  may  follow!  " 

He  forced  himself  to  read  the  page,  while  the 
Sunday  dinner  on  the  battered  tin  plate  developed 
rims  of  solidified  grease  about  its  slabs  of  meat 
and  dingy  mounds  of  vegetables.  Harry  drank  a 
cup  of  muddy  coffee,  and  read  on.  He  saw  him- 
self described  as  a  big,  hulking  fellow,  with  a  sin- 
ister eye.  .  .  .  He  had  been  for  some  time  in  the 
pay  of  the  German  government;  his  expenditures 
proved  it.  ...  Short  work  would  doubtless  be 
made  of  the  Schwartz  case,  there  being  not  a 
shadow  of  doubt  of  the  guilt  of  the  accused. 


NEIGHBORS  321 

The  keeper  looked  at  Harry  with  a  sort  of 
respect,  when  he  came  to  take  away  the  untasted 
dinner. 

"  Some  job  fer  a  young  feller  like  you,"  he  ob- 
served. "  But  o'  course  you  didn't  do  it  b'  your 
lonesome.  I'd  peach  on  m'  pals  higher  up,  if  I 
was  you." 

"  I  didn't  do  it,"  said  Harry  wearily. 

"  No  ?  .  .  .  Nice  pictur'  they  got  o'  you  in  th' 
paper.  .  .  .  Say,  I  guess  you'll  find  your  appetite 
b'  t'morrow.  Better  eat  while  you  c'n  git  real 
victuals :  they  won't  treat  you  s'  well  up  state." 

When  Harry  failed  to  respond  to  this  playful 
allusion  to  his  undoubted  fate,  the  friendly  official 
chuckled. 

;'  Take  it  from  me,  you  innercent  guys  wins  th' 
bun!  Say,  you  got  a  real  baby  stare,  ain't  you? 
.  .  .  But  don't  you  try  no  hunger  strike 
on  yours  truly.  I  got  your  number  all  right, 
young  feller !  " 

It  was  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  when  Miss 
Malvina  Bennett  called.  Harry  had  abandoned 
his  introspective  studies  and  was  gazing  out  of  the 
window  at  the  procession  of  Sunday  pedestrians. 
He  had  ceased  to  notice  their  upward  glances  at 
his  window.  It  seemed  a  long  time  since  he  had 
talked  with  his  father  and  Mr.  Northrup.  .  .  . 
Of  course  everybody  had  read  the  papers.  .  .  ., 


322  NEIGHBORS 

He  turned  a  lack-luster  eye  upon  Miss  Bennett,  as 
she  hesitated  before  his  door. 

"  Sweetheart  t'  see  you,"  announced  his  jailer 
facetiously.  "  I  ain't  a-going  t'  look." 

"  You  go  'long,  Ed  Lucas !  "  Miss  Bennett  ex- 
horted him.  "  I  ain't  seen  an  awful  sight  o'  you 
sence  you  ust  t'  steal  apples  offen  my  sweeting 
tree.  I  guess  you  was  about  th'  meanest  boy  in 
town  in  them  days,  an'  you  ain't  changed  much, 
'xcept  ycr  whiskers." 

Upon  the  retreat  of  the  discomfited  official  Miss 
Malvina  went  up  to  Harry  and  laid  her  hands 
upon  his  shoulders. 

"  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  pity  you  none,"  she  said 
briskly.  "  Ef  the's  anythin'  I  hate  on  top  th' 
ground  it's  the  pison  sentiment  folks  call  sympa- 
thy; but  I  will  say  this:  I  believe  in  you  right 
down  t'  the  ground,  Harry.  You  may  'ave  made 
a  mistake — mos'  folks  do,  one  time  er  another. 
But  I  know  you're  all  right.  Ma  Bennett  thinks 
th'  same  as  me,  an'  so  does  Mad'lane  Dassay  an' 
her  pa." 

Harry's  unhappy  face  brightened. 

"  Does  she  ?  "  he  asked  eagerly. 

"  Meanin'  Ma  Bennett,  o'  course,"  chuckled 
Miss  Malvina.  "Now  you  jes'  set  down;  'n' 
you  'n'  me  '11  take  counsel  t'gether,  es  it  says  in 
th'  Psa'ms.  But  first  off,  ain't  you  hungry?  I'll 


NEIGHBORS  323 

bet  Mis'  Lucas  can't  cook  a  decent  meal  o'  victuals 
t'  save  her  life.  When  th'  two  of  'em  got  ap- 
p'inted  t'  this  'ere  jail  I  says  t'  Ma,  '  Malefactors,' 
I  says,  '  '11  git  all  'at's  comin'  t'  'em  jes'  from 
eatin'  'Liza  Jane  Lucases  cookinV  Anyhow,  I 
brought  you  some  ham  sandwiches  an'  a  lemon 
pie  an'  some  o'  Mad'lane's  gaiters.  She  brought 
'em  over  t'  me  this  mornin'  a-purpose.  But  when 
I  come  in  an'  asked  fer  you  I  hed  t'  laugh.  '  What 
you  got  in  your  basket,  Miss  Malvina  ? '  says  Ed 
Lucas,  kind  of  important.  '  We  hev  t'  be  keer- 
ful,'  says  he,  '  what  goes  in  t'  desprit  criminals.' 
'  Well,  Ed,'  I  says  t'  him,  '  I  guess  you  done  well 
t'  take  up  your  res'dunce  in  jail  on  your  own  hook. 
It's  where  you  b'long,'  I  says.  '  Es  f'r  desprit 
criminals,'  I  says,  '  I  ain't  got  no  dealin's  with 
'em.  I've  come  t'  see  Harry  Schwartz,  an'  I 
brought  him  somethin'  fit  t'  eat,  knowin'  full  well 
he  wouldn't  git  no  relishin'  victuals  here.'  With 
that  I  opens  up  my  basket  'n'  showed  him  this 
'ere  pie.  Land!  You  c'd  fairly  see  Ed's  mouth 
waterin'.  .  .  .  That's  right!  jes'  you  pitch  int' 
them  sandwiches.  Y'  don't  want  t'  git  all  run 
down  an'  tuckered  out.  I  tell  you,  you  got  t'  keep 
a  stiff  upper  lip.  It's  a-goin'  t'  come  out  all 
right." 

Miss  Malvina  beamed  upon  Harry  like  sun 
upon  the  frozen  ground.    In  the  generous  warmth 


324  NEIGHBORS 

of  her  friendly  presence  he  swallowed  the  aching 
lump  in  his  throat  and  ate  the  sandwiches  to  the 
last  crumb,  and  likewise  the  pie,  with  its  deli- 
cately fragrant  lemon  filling. 

"  That  tastes  like  mother's  pie,"  he  said 
wistfully. 

"  'Tis,"  confirmed  Miss  Malvina.  "  I  went  in 
t'  see  your  Ma.  I  heerd  she  was  jes'  prostrate. 
An'  'twas  'n'  awful  shock  havin'  her  boy  took  off 
th'  way  they  done.  .  .  .  Th'  wa'n't  a  mite  of  ex- 
cuse f'r  it,  neither.  'Twas  them  measly  Boston 
d'tectives  'n'  th'  local  p'lice.  They  feel  kind  o' 
cheap  ef  they  can't  arrest  somebody.  Most  any- 
body '11  do,  sols  they  git  their  names  in  print. 
.  .  .  R'minds  me  of  an  old  dog  we  ust  t'  hev' 
at  home :  he'd  chase  a  squirrel  till  he  was  all  beat 
out;  then  he'd  fetch  a  stick  t'  Pa  'n'  lay  it  down 
afront  o'  him,  tail  a-waggin'  s'  much  's  t'  say, 
'Ain't  I  some  dog?'  .  .  .  Your  Ma  's  feelin' 
better.  But  I  says  t'  her,  *  Fer  pity  sake,  don't 
go  over  there,  'n'  cry  over  Harry.  It'd  take  th' 
tuck  all  out  of  'im,'  I  says.  So  she's  a-goin'  t' 
brace  up,  same's  I  told  her;  an'  I  guess  you'll 
see  her  b'  t'morrow.  .  .  .  Eat  a  gaiter,  do! 
Mad'lane  '11  be  awful  pleased  when  I  tell  her." 

'4  They  are  too  pretty  to  eat,"  protested  Harry, 
sighing  over  the  delicate  scalloped  cakes.  "  I 
suppose  she — she  must  be — : — " 


NEIGHBORS  325 

"  She  says  it's  all  her  fault,"  interrupted  Miss 
Bennett.  "She  give  you  that,  name  in  th'  be- 
ginnin' — fer  a  kind  of  a  joke  on  her  pa.  .  .  .  'N' 
I  can  tell  you,  I  give  him  a  real  good  goin'  over 
this  mornin' :  '  Ef  you'd  asked  me,'  I  says  t'  him, 
4 1  c'd  a-told  you  first  off  'at  Harry  Schwartz  was 
about  th'  nicest  boy  in  this  'ere  town.  .  .  .  An' 
th'  simple  idee  o'  tryin'  t'  keep  a  sweet  posy  of 
a  girl  like  Mad'lane  from  havin'  beaux.  Why,' 
I  says,  '  you  might  's  well  try  t'  keep  th'  summer 
from  comin'  right  along  after  June  first.  'Tain't 
natur','  I  says  t'  'im.  .  .  .  He's  a  reel  nice  man, 

even  ef  he  is  fur'n,  an'  's  fer  Mad'lane 

Well !  ef  she  ain't  peaches  'n'  cream  I  don'  know 
who  is." 

"  She'll  never  look  at  me  again,"  sighed  Harry. 

11  You  c'n  jes'  bet  she  will.  Mad'lane's  got 
plenty  o'  grit  'n'  gumption,  an'  she  c'n  see 
through  a  hole  in  th'  wall,  even  ef  th'  p'lice  is 
blinder  'n  bats.  Now  you  jes'  chirk  right  up, 
Harry.  The  Lord  ain't  forgot  you,  'n'  we  ain't, 
neither." 

Miss  Malvina  fumbled  in  her  pocket,  which 
for  greater  safety  was  hung  amid  the  folds  of 
her  petticoat. 

"Land!  I  hope  I  ain't  mislaid  it  .  .  . "  she 
murmured.  "  No :  here  'tis.  It's  a  note  from 
Mad'lane.  Thinks  I,  I  won't  mention  it  first 


326  NEIGHBORS 

off,  f'r  fear  you  wouldn't  relish  y'r  victuals 
thinkin'  about  it.  Mebbe  it  '11  pass  th'  time  away, 
studyin'  it  out.  .  .  .  She'd  a-come  right  along 
with  me;  but  her  pa  wa'n't  willin',  V  I  don' 
know  's  I  blame  'im  none.  You  wouldn't  want 
Ed  Lucas  a-gawpin'  at  her." 

Harry's  big  brown  hand  trembled  as  he  reached 
for  the  small  envelope  bearing  his  name. 

Miss  Malvina  picked  up  her  basket. 

"  Now,  don't  you  git  down-hearted,"  was  her 
final  exhortation.  "  Ef  th's  anythin'  in  holdin' 
th'  thought,  like  Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone — her 
'twas  Philura  Rice — says,  you'll  be  out  o'  here 
b'fore  you  know  it.  Ev'rybody  'at  c'n  wag  a  jaw 
is  prayin'  fer  you  t'  beat  th'  cars.  .  .  .  Now,  Ed 
Lucas,  I'm  a-goin'.  .  .  .  I  c'n  see  'at  you  feel  all 
swelled  up  with  pride  t'  be  lockin'  'n'  unlockin' 
your  fellow-creeters,  like  they  was  circus  animals. 
But  you  want  t'  r'member  pride  goes  b'fore  a 
fall — an'  not  s'  fur  ahead  of  it,  neither." 

Harry  did  not  hear  the  objectionable  sound  of 
the  key  in  the  lock  on  this  occasion:  he  was  read- 
ing Madeleine's  letter  in  the  light  from  his  barred 
window.  It  was  worth  going  to  jail  for — that 
letter!  Harry  read  it,  then  folded  it  carefully 
and  bestowed  it  in  the  breast  pocket  of  his  coat, 
where  it  appeared  to  diffuse  a  roseate  glow 
through  his  entire  being.  But  it  must  needs  be 


NEIGHBORS  327 

read  again  and  yet  again,  while  quite  unnoticed 
the  town  clock  struck  four,  and  after  an  insig- 
nificant period  five.  And  yet  Madeleine  had  only 
written  this: 

"  Mon  ami,  I  have  grate  mad  to  myself  parce- 
que  you  suffaire.  Me — I  have  weep  some  tear 
from  a  past  time  when  I  see  you.  I  explain  all 
to  mon  pere.  He  say  to  me,  '  Madeleine,  you  are 
more  simple  comme  une  enfant:  I  translate  for 
you  to  say  I  know  nossing  no  more  an  bebe.  I  am 
mos'  triste  all  times,  spedalement  when  I  cause  to 
bake  les  petit  gateaux  aux  raisins  de  Corinthe — 
you  translate  by  eat  wis  teeth  les  gateaux,  which 
I  sen  you  by  very  good  neighbor,  Miss  Malvina. 
Fonnie  word  neighbor.  I  look  for  him  in  dic- 
tionnaire.  All  times  I  study  my  dictionnaire  very 
severe,  all  word  astonishing  like  wife,  I  achieve 
more  queek  zan  scat.  Beyond,  I  am  also  arduous 
to  my  grammaire  Anglaise,  an'  meditate  such 
verbe — like  I  love  you — you  love  me — we  one 
another  love.  Some  elegant  nice  verbe.  I  have 
now  to  desist  from  write.  I  make  to  come  to 
you  mos  respectful  regard — very  much  friendly. 
Adieu, 

11  MADELEINE." 

Grandfather  Schwartz,  a  package  of  choice 
Frankfurter  sausages  and  pretzels  under  his  arm, 
was  obliged  to  announce  his  presence  with  more 
than  his  usual  explosiveness  before  the  prisoner 
turned  from  his  window,  where  he  appeared 


328  NEIGHBORS 

deeply  engrossed  with  an  insignificant  scrap  of 
paper. 

"  Hello,  grandfather,"  said  Harry,  almost 
cheerfully. 

"  Wie  geht's,  son,"  responded  the  old  man, 
with  a  cautious  glance  into  the  corridor.  "  How 
you  vas — heh?  " 

Harry  carefully  bestowed  the  letter  in  the  left- 
hand  breast  pocket  of  his  coat. 

**  I  guess  I'm  all  right,  grandfather,"  he  replied, 
with  a  notable  access  of  gloom,  "  as  right  as  I 
can  be  in  this  hole." 

"  Ach !  too  pad,"  growled  the  old  man,  shaking 
his  head. 

He  sat  down  heavily  on  the  bench. 

"  A  pad  pizniz,"  he  muttered.    "  Hr-rumph !  " 

After  a  longish  pause,  during  which  he  gazed 
at  Harry  with  an  odd  grimace,  he  added: 

"  I  see  your  vater,  son.    He  tell  me." 

Harry  stared  at  the  floor. 

"  I  guess  they'll  find  out  they're  mistaken  be- 
fore long,"  he  offered  miserably. 

'You  pet!  "  agreed  his  grandfather,  with  un- 
looked  for  buoyancy.  "  Zo  I  myself  find;  I  vas 
wrong  mit  you,  Heinrich.  You  are  goot  poy." 

He  pulled  Harry  down  to  a  seat  beside  him  on 
the  bench. 

"  Ach,  let  me  look  at  you,  Heinrich !  " 


NEIGHBORS  329 

Harry  submitted  to  his  grandfather's  arm 
about  his  shoulders. 

"  I — I'm  glad  if  you  aren't  ashamed  of  me, 
grandfather,"  he  murmured.  "  Father  said — I — 
I  thought — he  didn't  seem  to  understand." 

"Ach!  he  mage  me  sick:  he  haf  no  V 'er- 
standniss — my  son  Heinrich." 

The  old  man  stooped  his  booming  whisper  to 
Harry's  ear. 

"  You  vill  not  go  to  prison,  son!  Nem!  You 
haf  learn  much  to  me  addentive — heh?  Goot 
poy!" 

Harry  stared  at  his  grandfather,  a  doubt  of 
his  complete  sanity  crossing  his  mind.  His 
mother  had  succumbed  under  the  shock  of  his 
arrest,  and  now,  too  evidently,  the  old  man  had 
been  crazed  by  it.  He  must  attempt  to  divert 
his  attention. 

"Have  you  seen  mother  today?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

Old  Heinrich  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Ya"  he  drawled,  and  shook  his  head. 
"  She  is  unzurechnungsfachig." 

Harry  was  silent.  He  was  not  quite  sure 
what  unzurechnungsfachig  meant. 

"  Not  a  Mutter  for  a  Deutsch  Helden.  You 
vill  see,  son,  vat  I  do.  I  pet  you  from  our 
Kaiser  obdain  eiserne  Kreuz:  you  know  vat  I 


330  NEIGHBORS 

mean?  .  .  .  Neln?  Ach!  you  are  von  pig  fool, 
Hemrich,  you  no  speak  Deutsch.  Veil,  I  learn 
you  von  vort:  eis ernes  Kreuz — vat  you  call  iron 
cross — so?  You  mage  von  pig  victory  for  your 
vaterland,  Heinrich." 

Harry  was  now  miserably  certain  that  his 
grandfather  had  lost  his  reason.  He  wriggled 
uneasily  in  the  strong  grip  of  the  old  man's  arm 
about  his  shoulders. 

"  I  guess  you'd  better  go  home,  grandfather," 
he  said  remorsefully.  "  I — I  hope  things  will  be 
cleared  up  by  tomorrow.  .  .  .  Of  course  you 
know  I  didn't " 

"  Sure,  Heinrich:  no  blace  to  talk.  I  know — I 
know !  I  go  avay,  an'  you  see  vot  I  do.  ...  In 
Boston  we  haf  friends.  I  tell  vot  I  know  about 
my  prave  Enkel,  Heinrich  Schwartz.  You  vill 
see  vot  happen!  " 

Harry  stared.  The  unnatural  complacency  of 
his  grandfather  troubled  him. 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  asked  abruptly. 
'  Vot   I    say,"    nodded   the    senior    Schwartz, 
clapping  his  grandson  resoundingly  on  the  back. 

Harry's  face  whitened  slowly.  He  was  begin- 
ning at  last  to  get  the  drift  of  the  conversation. 

"  Do  you  mean  you  think — you  believe  I  did 
it?"  he  shouted.  "For  God's  sake,  grandfa* 
ther!" 


NEIGHBORS  331 

The  old  man  stiffened  into  a  rigid  military 
attitude. 

4  You  haf  gain  pig  victory  for  Germany— 
nicht  wahrf "  he  asked  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 
"You  blow  up  der  vicked  factory — heh?" 

The  big  veins  swelled  on  Harry's  forehead. 
He  clenched  his  brown  hands.  But  when  at  last 
he  answered  the  proud  old  man,  who  had  never 
forgotten  the  land  of  his  birth,  his  voice  was 
gentle. 

"  Grandfather,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  am  an 
American.  .  .  .  You  don't  know  what  it  means  to 
be  an  American.  But  try  to  think,  grandfather. 
I  couldn't  commit  a  crime  which  might  have  mur- 
dered hundreds  of  people.  ...  I  couldn't !  " 

His  head  drooped,  as  he  perceived  the  fierce 
question  which  leaped  to  his  grandfather's  eyes. 

"  I  ought  never  to  have  worked  in  the  accursed 
place,"  he  murmured  humbly.  "  It  was  for 
money  I  did  it." 

'  Yaf  "  growled  the  old  man,  "for  money  you 
did  it!  Ach !  You  are  an  American,  an'  I — t'ink 
you  are  a  hero!  " 

Without  another  look  at  the  boy  who  bore  his 
name,  old  Schwartz  went  heavily  away.  .  .  . 
Harry  heard  the  key  turn  in  the  lock. 


XXVIII 

"T  'M  awfully  proud  of  you,  Hoddy  dear,"  de- 
clared Mrs.  Hobbs,  as  she  set  a  platter 
containing  three  lamb-chops,  fried  after 
the  American  fashion,  before  her  son. 

"  You've  nothing  to  be  proud  of,  mother,"  her 
son  said  gloomily. 

"  If  you  ain't  dyed-in-the-wool  British,  clear 
to  the  backbone,  Hoddy!"  complained  Mrs. 
Hobbs.  "  You'd  ought  to  remember  you're  half- 
American." 

He  narrowed  his  eyes  at  the  rapidly  cooling 
chops. 

"Why  don't  you  eat  your  dinner,  Hoddy?" 
inquired  his  mother,  returning  to  the  table  after 
a  trip  to  the  gas-range  with  a  dish  of  potatoes, 
also  fried  and  exuding  grease.  "  My !  if  you 
c'd  hear  my  customers  talk  about  you !  " 

"  Damned  glad  I  can't!  .  .  .  Don't  listen  to 
'em,  mother;  and  for  God's  sake,  don't  brag 
about  me !  I  can't  stand  it." 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  so  cross  about 
it,  Hoddy,"  soothed  his  mother,  setting  a  glass  of 
jelly  in  convenient  proximity  to  her  son's  plate. 
t.-  .  .  "  Try  some  of  this  nice  rhubarb  jell.  Miss 

332 


NEIGHBORS  333 

Sadie  Scrimger  brought  it  over  a-purpose  for 
you.  She's  a  real  pretty  girl,  Hoddy;  and  she 
says  everybody  in  town  is  talking  about  your 
brave  acts  at  the  explosion.  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  you  had  a  medal  presented  for  saving  life." 

He  choked  wordlessly  over  a  fragment  of 
bread,  which  he  was  in  the  act  of  swallowing. 
His  face  was  crimson  as  he  set  down  his  glass  of 
water. 

'  They're  talking  about  a  Carnegie  medal," 
pursued  Mrs.  Hobbs  complacently.  "  And  Mrs. 
Obed  Salter  says  her  husband  was  at  the  town- 
meeting  last  night,  and  your  name  was  brought 

up  prominently For  goodness  sake !  Hoddy, 

what  is  the  matter?  " 

Her  son  had  pushed  back  his  chair  from  his 
untasted  meal. 

"  Don't  you  like  your  chops  cooked  that 
way?"  inquired  his  mother  solicitously.  "Your 
father  always  said  I  couldn't  cook  a  chop  decent. 
.  .  .  He  had  his  notions,  an'  I  guess  you  got 
yours,  Hoddy.  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  almost  wish  I'd 
married  an  American:  British  ideas  is  so  odd. 
.  .  .  But  when  I  think  of  that  young  man,  shut 
up  in  jail  for  blowing  up  the  plant,  an'  of  the 
disgrace  an'  all  his  poor  mother  has  to  stand,  I 
ca/i't  help  feeling  proud  of  my  boy,  an'  glad  he 
ain't  got  German  blood,  I  should  think  you'd 


334  NEIGHBORS 

feel  real  happy  over  it,  Hoddy,  instead  of  being 
so  down  in  the  mouth  you  can't  eat  your  victuals. 
.  .  .  Don't  go 'yet:  I  got  a  nice  apple  pie  for 
dessert.  One  of  my  customers  brought  it  in  when 
she  came  for  her  fitting.  She  thinks  you're  just 
great,  Hoddy !  " 

He  turned  from  the  door,  his  hat  jammed  over 
his  eyes. 

u  I'm  going  out,"  he  said  abruptly.  "  Don't 
wait  supper  for  me,  mother." 

But  when  he  reached  the  street  he  paused  un- 
certainly, not  observing  the  eager  approach  of 
a  lady  attired  in  black  and  white  checks,  her  hat 
poised  at  a  coquettish  angle  over  one  eye.  It 
was  Miss  Electa  Pratt,  and  she  literally  pounced 
upon  the  unobservant  young  man. 

"  Oh,  M /j-ter  Hobbs,  I'm  so  glad  I  have  an 
opportunity  of  congratulating  you  in  person!" 
italicized  Miss  Pratt.  "  It  was  so  awfully  noble 
of  you !  I'm  sure  not  many  young  men  would 
do  anything  so  gr-rand,  risking  your  life  and  all. 
As  I  was  telling  aunty — perhaps  you  didn't 
know,  but  since  dear  mamma  passed  away  I  have 
the  sweetest  aunty  in  the  world  chaperoning  me— 
'  That  noble  Mr.  Hobbs,'  I  says  to  Aunty  Em, 
'  ought  t'  have  a  laurel  wreath.  An'  I've  a  good 
mind  to  make  one  for  him  myself.  It  would  be 
awfully  becoming,  don't  y'  know?,' 


NEIGHBORS  335 

And  Miss  Electa  giggled  coyly,  with  the  con- 
viction that  she  had  said  something  peculiarly 
English. 

Kitchener  Hobbs  regarded  the  disturber  of  his 
solitude  with  stern  self-control. 

"  Madam,"  said  he,  with  a  frowning  dignity 
which  Miss  Electa  later  described  as  "  perfectly 
fascinating,  don't  y'  know?"  "I  beg  that  you 
will  do  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  am  not  entitled 
to  a  laurel  wreath,  nor  to  your  distinguished 
praise." 

With  that  he  whipped  off  his  hat  and  strode 
away,  before  the  lady  could  devise  a  valid  excuse 
for  detaining  him. 

He  had  definitely  made  up  his  mind  where  he 
was  going.  And  he  marched  toward  his  ob- 
jective point  with  all  the  courage  needed  to  face 
a  storm  of  shrapnel.  It  was  Horatio  Herbert 
Kitchener,  with  a  very  small  admixture  of  Hobbs, 
who  presently  met  Madeleine  Desaye  walking 
slowly  along,  all  the  sweet  color  gone  from  her 
face,  her  slight  figure  sagging  like  a  slim  birch 
tree  under  the  bitter  assault  of  the  north  wind. 

Kitchener  Hobbs  halted  her  with  a  peremptory 
gesture. 

'  Where  are  you  going?"  he  demanded. 
' 'Ome,"   she   replied;  but  the  word  was  an 
irrepressible  sob. 


336  NEIGHBORS 

;'  What  is  the  matter  with  you?  "  was  his  suc- 
ceeding inquiry.  But  he  thought  he  knew. 

She  was  mute  before  his  searching  gaze. 

'  You  know  I  love  you,"  he  said  sternly. 

She  looked  up,  her  eyes  unnaturally  big  and 
dark. 

"  I'm  reminding  you  of  this  because  I  need — 
some  sort  of  excuse — though  of  course  there  isn't 
any." 

He  paused  to  kick  a  pebble  out  of  his  path. 

"  Me — I  love  'Arry,"  she  quavered  piteously. 
44  You  know  'Arry " 

She  choked,  a  slender  hand  at  her  throat.  "  I 
call  heem  Le  Noir — jus'  for  fonnie.  'Arry  'e  like 
zat  name  Le  Noir;  mais  I  'ave  now  large  tristesse 
to  myself  because  I  make  zat  fonnie." 

He  was  gazing  at  her,  his  gray  eyes  full  of  the 
sadness  she  had  confessed. 

"  Madeleine,"  he  said  slowly,  "  after  today 
you  will  never  see  me  again.  .  .  .  But  before  I 
go " 

He  stopped  short,  further  utterance  suddenly 
impossible.  Rain  began  to  fall  from  the  low- 
hanging  clouds. 

"  I  mustn't  keep  you  standing  here,"  he  said 
hurriedly.  "  I — I'm  rather  a  rotten  sort  of 
bounder — what  I  called  Schwartz  that  night  and 
* — and  afterward.  But — I'm  sorry — in  time.  I'm' 


NEIGHBORS  337 

going  there  now — to  the  inquiry,  I  mean.  .  .  . 
Do  you  understand  me?  I'm  afraid  I  can't 
speak  decent  French  today." 

She  nodded. 

"  All  person  spik  like  pretty-kettle-o'-fish. 
Ev'ryboddie  mad  to  'Arry." 

"  Have  you  been  there — at  the  hearing?  " 

"  Non,  m'sieu',  Mees  Malvina,  she  say  so.  I 
am  wait  at  cornaire — me." 

"  You  should  have  told  them  how  he  got  his 
name  Le  Noir." 

"  My  fa'ter  'e  not  permit;  'e  say  to  me,  'Go 
'ome,  Madeleine,  immediatement'  Me — I  am 
make  queek  track." 

The  cold  drops  on  her  cheeks  reproached  him 
poignantly. 

"  See  here,"'  he  said  in  a  firm  voice;  "perhaps 
I  have  no  right  to  be  taking  things  into  my  own 
hands.  But  we've  got  to  put  up  a  stiff  fight  to 
save  him,  now.  they're  all  against  him,  and  the 
police  have  worked  out  a  bloody  chain  of  cir- 
cumstantial evidence.  Come  on !  " 

"  To  'imf  "  she.  breathed,  a  faint  color  staining 
her  cheeks.  .  .  . 

The  preliminary  hearing,  necessary  to  a  formal 
indictment  of  Heinrich  Schwartz,  accused  of  wil- 
fully causing  the  destruction  of  the  Merks  Muni- 


338  NEIGHBORS 

tions  Plant,  was  drawing  to  a  close.  The  evidence 
against  the  accused  had  been  strong,  his  defense 
weak.  He  had  obtained  employment  under  the 
alias,  Le  Noir,  for  the  express  purpose  of  con- 
cealing his  German  name.  This  much  the  pris- 
oner had  confessed.  But  so  far,  after  the  most 
rigid  examination,  continued  throughout  one  en- 
tire night,  the  accused  had  stubbornly  refused  to 
divulge  the  names  of  his  associates  in  crime. 
There  was  little  doubt  that  the  Government  de- 
tectives would,  during  the  course  of  the  trial, 
succeed  in  unearthing  a  sinister,  far-reaching  plot, 
which  would  involve  persons  of  the  highest  stand- 
ing. The  prisoner  Schwartz,  it  was  plain,  was 
merely  a  tool  in  an  august  hand.  This  much  the 
reporters  had  added  to  copious  reports  of  the 
proceedings,  to  be  hastily  licked  into  shape  for 
the  evening  papers,  when  two  persons  entered  the 
crowded  court-room. 

The  magistrate,  a  local  official  rather  dazed 
by  the  spot-light  of  publicity  thus  suddenly  focused 
upon  him,  was  about  to  pronounce  the  words 
which  would  condemn  the  prisoner  to  the  long 
torture  of  a  trial  by  jury,  with  no  uncertain  out- 
come. It  was  evident  that  the  magistrate  had 
no  doubt  of  the  prisoner's  guilt. 

Calvin  S.  Northrup,  counsel  for  the  accused, 
kept  his  own  private  convictions  well  hidden  under 


NEIGHBORS  339 

a  mask  of  frowning  silence.  He  had  made  up 
his  mind  to  prove  his  client  insane.  Having  thus 
determined,  Mr.  Northrup  rather  resented  the  in- 
trusion of  fresh  evidence,  insisted  upon  by  the 
two  persons  before  mentioned  when  they  had 
forced  their  way  through  the  crowd. 

The  bunched  reporters  simultaneously  noted 
the  beauty  of  the  girl  and  the  stern  good  looks 
of  the  young  man  who  accompanied  her.  The 
associated  press  photographer  slipped  a  fresh 
plate  into  position,  while  the  usual  legal  pre- 
liminaries were  in  progress.  .  .  .  The  girl  was 
permitted  to  testify  first. 

"  Oui,  m'sieu',  I  am  acquaint  wiz  'Arry  Sch- 
wartz. .  .  .  Oh,  for  long  time.  I  call  heem  Le 
Noir  w'en  to  my  fat'er  I  present  heem.  Me — 
I  make  of  Sch-wartz  one  French  name — you  un'er- 
stan' — non?  My  fat'er  'e  ha-ate  all  such  oglie 
German  name  as  Sch-wartz — vary  oglie,  you  see? 
Me — I  like  'Arry;  so  easy-as-roll-from-log  I 
queek  translate:  Sch-wartz — very  dark,  w'at  you 
call  black,  like  night — Le  Noir.  You  see  ?  .  .  . 
Oui,  m'sieu' :  'Arry  'e  like  zat  nize  French  name 
bettaire  zan  Sch-wartz.  I  give  heem  zat  name; 
'e  like  eet.  .  .  .  Non,  m'sieu',  I  not  tell  my  fat'er 
such  fonnie  joke — not  for  long  time.  My  fat'er, 
'e  ees  vary  mad  to  German:  we  are  of  Alsace, 


340  NEIGHBORS 

Informed  that  the  accused  had  already  con- 
fessed to  adopting  the  name  Le  Noir  in  order  to 
obtain  employment  at  the  Merks  plant,  Mile. 
Desaye  blushed  very  sweetly. 

"  Me — I  am  aware,"  she  said.  "  'Arry  'e  like 
to  earn  monnie  to  make  'ouse.  .  .  .  You  know 
w'at  ees  to  make  'ouse — for  marry?  " 

The  reporters  were  writing  like  mad.  Even 
the  solemnly  important  magistrate  smiled.  He 
had  once  built  a  house  for  his  bride.  His  next 
question  brought  the  quick  blood  to  the  prisoner's 
face;  but  Madeleine  answered  it  with  sweet 
composure. 

"  Out,  m'sieu',  'Arry,  'e  like  to  marry  me — 
myself.  I  ex-plain  to  you :  'Arry  'e  call  heemself 
Le  Noir  to  earn  queek  simoleon  for  'ome.  Fine 
elegant  word — 'ome.  Me — I  like  to  live  in  some 
nize  'ome  of  'Arry." 

Her  glance  at  the  prisoner  was  the  merest 
flicker  of  long  lashes,  but  it  carried  with  it  the 
sweetest  assurance. 

The  associated  press  artist  was  recording  im- 
pressionistic sketches  as  fast  as  his  nimble  pencil 
could  work :  "  featuring  "  Madeleine  Desaye  as 
she  gave  her  "  deliciously  quaint  testimony,"  which 
entirely  exonerated  the  accused  from  inventing  the 
French  alias  for  some  "  sinister  purpose  ";  of  the 
beautiful  French  girl  taking  her  seat  beside  the 


NEIGHBORS  341 

weeping  mother  of  the  prisoner;  of  the  piquant 
profile  of  the  witness  with  its  delicately  tip-tilted 
nose  and  the  bewitching  curve  of  lips  and  chin. 
He  paused  only  for  a  deliberately  appraising  look 
at  the  young  Englishman  who  succeeded  Mile. 
Desaye  upon  the  stand. 

"  Some  name !  "  murmured  the  nearest  re- 
porter, as  he  inscribed  the  hieroglyphs  represent- 
ing "  Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener  Hobbs  "  upon 
his  pad. 

Mr.  Hobbs  told  his  story  baldly. 

"  I  saw  the  accident,"  he  stated.  "  A  girl  in 
the  filling  shed  dropped  a  wire  hairpin  as  she  left 
the  place.  It  somehow  landed  on  the  belt  of  the 
motor-driven  shaft.  There  was  a  spark.  It 
caused  the  explosion.  .  .  .  Schwartz  wasn't  near 
the  place.  I  saw  him  in  the  yard — fifty  feet  or 
more  away — two  minutes  before  the  explosion. 
He  is  innocent." 

When  asked  why  he  had  not  come  forward 
with  this  important  bit  of  testimony  before, 
Hobbs  bit  his  lip  and  turned  noticeably  pale. 

"  I  see  no  reason  why  you  should  ask  that 
question,"  he  said  stiffly.  "  I  was  not  called  as  a 
witness.  .  .  .  What  I  have  told  you  is  God  s 
truth;  what  more  do  you  want?  " 

After  all,  the  magistrate  was  human.  So  were 
the  lawyers  and  the  reporters  and  the  rest — in- 


342  NEIGHBORS 

eluding  the  artist.  There  was  a  rigid  cross- 
examination,  of  course,  on  the  part  of  the  prose- 
cution, establishing  certain  technical  points.  But 
in  the  end  the  testimony  of  Horatio  Herbert 
Kitchener  Hobbs  stood. 

As  the  witness  stepped  down  from  the  stand, 
M.  Desaye— who  stood  with  folded  arms  looking 
on  at  the  scene — observed  that  he  cast  a  single 
quick  glance  at  Madeleine;  but  he  did  not  at- 
tempt to  speak  to  her.  His  face  was  sternly 
controlled  as  he  replied  monosyllabically  to  the 
questions  showered  upon  him  by  the  reporters. 
There  were  those  who  declared  that  the  young 
Englishman  refused  to  further  enlighten  the 
representatives  of  the  press,  and  that  he  bolted 
from  the  room  without  so  much  as  a  word  to 
the  man  he  had  saved.  But  in  the  light  of  later 
events,  the  conduct  of  Kitchener  Hobbs  earned 
him  not  even  a  nine  days'  wonder.  Being  out 
of  sight  in  those  days  was  tantamount  to  being 
swiftly  forgotten.  And  no  one  in  Innisfield— 
except  perhaps  the  station-master  at  the  depar- 
ture of  the  evening  train — ever  set  eyes  upon 
young  Hobbs  after  he  left  the  court-room. 

It  was  generally  known  on  the  following  day 
that  the  Hobbses  had  left  town.  Nobody  ap- 
peared to  know  where  they  had  gone.  The  sign, 
bearing  the  words  "  Madame  Louise,  Robes " 


NEIGHBORS  343 

swung  fitfully  in  the  wind  for  perhaps  a  week 
longer.  Then  one  day  it  was  taken  down  and 
replaced  by  another,  presenting  to  the  public  eye 
the  advantages  to  be  derived  from  a  visit  to  the 
skilled  chiropodist,  one  flight  up. 

And  yet  the  disappearance  of  the  American 
Mrs.  Hobbs  and  her  son,  who  was  a  British  sub- 
ject, was  merely  a  logical  sequence  of  preceding 
events.  Mrs.  Hobbs  was  busily  engaged  in 
draping  a  lay-figure  with  voluminous  folds  of 
mustard-colored  voile  when  her  son  tramped 
heavily  up  the  stair.  Without  a  glance  at  his 
mother  he  sat  down  in  a  chair  by  the  table,  where 
the  neglected  dinner  still  sojourned  amid  its  con- 
gealed grease. 

"For  goodness'  sake,  Hoddy! "  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Hobbs,  removing  a  quantity  of  pins  from 
between  her  teeth,  "  you  wouldn't  eat  your  dinner 
when  it  was  nice  and  hot,  and  now " 

He  turned  his  head  slowly  and  looked  at  her. 

Mrs.  Hobbs  was  a  commonplace  person,  with 
limited  powers  of  insight  and  imagination,  but 
not  even  the  dullest  woman  could  have  gazed 
upon  that  tragic  young  face  without  a  stirring  of 
the  emotions.  Mrs.  Hobbs  dropped  the  mustard- 
colored  stuff,  while  her  scissors,  hung  by  a  cord 
about  her  neck,  clashed  noisily  against  the  earth- 
enware teapot  as  she  leaned  across  the  table. 


344  NEIGHBORS 

"Hoddy!"  she  cried.  "What  has  hap- 
pened? Are  you  sick?  " 

Then  she  ran  to  him  and  took  his  comely  head 
in  her  arms. 

"Hoddy,"  she  whispered,  "what  is  it?  Tell 
mother !  " 

He  turned  and  buried  his  face  on  her  shoulder. 

"  Oh,  mother,"  he  groaned,  "  I'm  so  bloody 
miserable !  " 

But  she  couldn't  be  made  to  understand  the 
cause  of  his  unhappiness,  even  after  he  had  hon- 
estly tried  to  tell  her  everything. 

"  Why,  Hoddy,"  she  said,  "  I  don't  see  why 
you  should  feel  so  bad  over  it.  You  haven't  done 
anything  to  be  ashamed  of.  You  was  a  real  hero 
at  the  fire,  Hoddy.  Everybody  says  so.  Lots  of 
folks  would  have  been  killed  if  it  hadn't  'a'  been 
for  you.  An'  you  say  they  let  that  Schwartz 
fellow  off,  after  you  went  of  your  own  accord  and 
told.  I  think  it  was  real  noble  of  you." 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  temples  and  ham- 
mered there. 

"  You — you  never  can  see,"  he  choked.  "  It 
must  be  because  you  are- " 

He  swallowed  his  wqfds  with  an  effort. 

"  But,  Hoddy  dear,  I  wish  you'd  try  an'  be 
sensible,  for  once,  an* " 

He  fetched  a  deep  breath. 


NEIGHBORS  345 

"  If  you'd  ever  call  me  by  my  name,"  he  mur- 
mured, despair  in  his  voice. 

She  looked  at  him  sharply. 

"  You  mean  you  don't  like  I  should  call  you 
Hoddy?"  she  said.  "Why,  I've  always  called 
you  Hoddy  since  you  were  a  baby." 

"  My  name,"  he  went  on  unsteadily,  "  is 
Horatio  Herbert  Kitchener,  and  IVe  allowed  a 
man  to  go  to  jail — because  I  was — jealous.  Does 
that  convey  anything  to  your  mind?  I  meant  to 
let  him  go  to  prison,  or  to  death — anything  to 
get  him  out  of  my  way!  I'm  a  liar — with 
that  name.  I'm  a  coward — with  that  name. 
I'm  a  murderer — with  that  name.  My  God, 
mother!  " 

Mrs.  Hobbs  sank  weakly  into  a  chair  and 
mopped  her  eyes  with  a  breadth  of  the  mustard- 
colored  stuff.  In  the  silence,  broken  by  his  hard, 
wrenching  sobs,  she  went  back  over  the  brief 
story  of  his  life.  ...  It  seemed  to  her  scarcely 
more  than  a  year  or  so  since  he  was  a  little,  little 
boy,  playing  with  his  tops  and  marbles.  .  .  .  He 
always  had  such  beautiful  eyes,  and  his  hair  was 
like  silk  to  the  touch.  .  .  .  She  found  herself 
touching  it  now,  almost  timidly. 

"  Hoddy,"  she  said,  close  to  his  ear,  "  I — I'm 
going  to  let  you  go.  I'm  not  going  to  hold  you 
back  any  longer — from  the  war,  I  mean.  .  .  . 


346  NEIGHBORS 

I'll  go  with  you,  Hoddy.  You  can  enlist  as  soon 
as  we  get  home.  ...  I  guess — maybe — you'd 
ought  to,  after  all." 

And  having  thus  made  the  supreme  renuncia- 
tion, she  was  equal  to  what  followed.  .   .   . 


XXIX 

METIENNE  DESAYE  sat  in  his  fa- 
vorite chair  by  the  window  in  an  atti- 
tude of  deep  dejection.  All  about  him 
on  the  floor  scattered  newspapers,  both  French 
and  English,  bore  witness  to  the  fact  that  M. 
Desaye  had  been  spending  his  Sunday  in  a  char- 
acteristically American  manner.  His  rumpled 
hair  and  the  deep  pucker  between  his  brows  evi- 
denced the  singular  dissatisfaction  he  had  de- 
rived from  his  survey  of  the  world's  doings.  The 
house  was  very  quiet,  save  for  a  moaning  little 
wind,  which  seemed  to  be  seeking  entrance  about 
the  doors  and  windows  of  the  shabby  old  house. 
.  .  .  He  wondered  a  little  as  to  the  whereabouts 
of  his  daughter  Madeleine.  He  had  not  seen  her 
since  dejeuner,  being  dimly  aware  thereafter  of  her 
fresh  young  voice  in  the  kitchen  warbling  certain 
old  French  chansons  he  had  taught  her  when  a 
child.  Absorbed  in  a  disquieting  account  of  his 
country's  economic  condition,  he  had  scarcely 
lifted  his  eyes  from  his  reading  when  she  paused 
for  a  moment  on  her  way  upstairs.  .  .  ,.  He  had 
not  heard  her  come  down. 

347 


348  NEIGHBORS 

M.  Desaye  arose,  spurning  the  illustrated  edi- 
tion with  his  foot.  For  perhaps  ten  minutes  he 
marched  up  and  down  the  room,  unwonted 
thoughts  stirring  in  his  mind.  .  .  .  Where  was 
Madeleine?  He  would  go  upstairs  and  see.  But 
a  visit  to  her  nest  of  a  chamber  under  the  eaves 
revealed  nothing  save  the  evidences  of  a  hasty 
toilet.  M.  Desaye  picked  up  a  knot  of  rose- 
colored  ribbon  exhaling  a  faint  perfume.  He 
sighed  deeply.  It  had  not  been  soberly  consid- 
ered— this  coming  to  America.  And  now  he  felt 
that  he  must  return.  No  longer  could  he  remain 
enjoying  an  unearned  and  inglorious  idleness, 
while  France  grew  pale  and  cold  from  uncounted 
wounds. 

"  I  am  no  less  than  a  coward  I "  he  told  him- 
self between  clenched  teeth. 

But  what  of  Madeleine?  Had  she  been  dearer 
to  him  than  France?  Was  it  because  of  her  he 
had  fled  from  his  duty  to  this  alien  land,  where 
even  now  the  distant  rumblings  of  war  could 
be  heard?  Very  gently  he  put  down  the  rose- 
colored  token  of  youth.  It  was  as  if  he  had  laid 
Madeleine  herself  upon  the  blood-stained  altar 
of  his  country.  He  had  at  length  determined 
upon  his  course.  Neither  tears  nor  pleadings 
should  deflect  him  from  it.  .  .  . 

His  brow  was  still  corrugated  with  care  when 


NEIGHBORS  349 

half  an  hour  later  he  presented  himself  in  frock- 
coated  elegance  at  the  door  of  Mile.  Dubois- 
Bennett.  He  had  come,  he  said,  to  seek  counsel 
from  madame,  sa  mere. 

"Now,  ain't  that  too  bad!"  regretted  Miss 
Malvina,  recognizing  the  importance  of  the  oc- 
casion, as  her  eyes  perused  the  person  of  her 
neighbor  from  his  polished  boots  to  the  tri-color 
of  France  in  his  buttonhole.  "  Ma  don't  go  out 
once  in  a  coon's  age;  but  t'day  Mis'  Adelbert 
Cummins — her  t'  was  M'randy  D'boise — come 
after  Ma  in  her  auto,  'n'  I  says  t'  Ma,  '  You  go 
right  along,'  I  says,  '  'n'  don't  you  come  back  tell 
you're  good  'n'  ready.'  Mis'  Cummins  wanted 
Ma  should  stay  all  night,  b'cause  th'  was  a  third 
cousin  o'  hern  comin'  t'  dinner.  So  here  I  be,  all 
b'  m'  lonesome.  .  .  .  But  come  right  in,  do !  I'd 
b'  pleased  t'  see  you,  even  ef  Ma  ain't  t'  home." 

M.  Desaye  hesitated  for  the  fraction  of  a  min- 
ute. It  occurred  to  him  that  possibly  he  might 
be  committing  an  indiscretion  in  thus  visiting  the 
unchaperoned  Miss  Malvina.  But  the  sight  of 
the  glistening  silver  curls  about  her  temples  reas- 
sured him.  He  remembered  that  he  was  no 
longer  young;  neither  was  Miss  Malvina.  Much 
could  be  overlooked  in  the  conduct  of  persons  no 
longer  young. 

.They  were  presently  seated  in  the  hair-cloth 


350  NEIGHBORS 

parlor  facing  one  another  from  two  slippery 
chairs  with  carved  rosewood  backs,  designed 
especially  to  remind  frail  mortals  of  the  passage 
of  the  moments.  M.  Desaye  gazed  earnestly  at 
Miss  Malvina.  She  was  wearing  a  lavender 
gown  with  a  garniture  of  yellowish  lace.  Miss 
Malvina's  cheeks  were  of  an  unwonted  pink.  Her 
eyes  shone  under  her  white  curls. 

"  Say,  first  off,  I  want  t'  tell  you  the  smart  trick 
Mis'  Rev'ren'  Pettibone's  yellow  dog  played  on 
me  yist'day,"  she  began,  without  waiting  for  her 
visitor  to  unfold  his  errand.  "Might's  well 
speak  right  out — fer  I  see  you  can't  help  noticin' 
my  loss.  My  nice  black  hair-front  was  a-layin' 
on  a  cheer,  right  where  I  c'd  put  m'  hand  on  it 
ef  the  door-bell  rang.  I  seen  Philura  'n'  the 
baby  a-comin'  in  th'  gate,  th'  dog  a-followin' 
'em  's  large  's  life.  But,  thinks  s'l,  Mis'  Rev'ren' 
Pettibone  knows  my  hair  's  been  gray  sence  I  was 
twenty;  so  I  left  m'  front  a-layin'  keerless.  Well, 
th'  baby,  he  set  there  on  an  old  comfort  I  keep 
a-purpose  f'r  babies  when  their  mas  is  bein'  fitted 
— a-playin'  with  a  string  of  empty  spools,  'n'  Fido, 
he  set  solemn  's  a  jedge  a-watchin'  th'  baby.  Mis' 
Pettibone  was  tellin'  what  a  wonderful  dog  Fido 
Pettibone  was — ^when  she  wa'n't  r'latin'  incidents 
about  th'  baby,  with  me  a-listenin'  patient,  whilst 
I  draped  th'  goods  fer  her  skirt,  like  they  do  in 


NEIGHBORS  351 

shur  Paree,  as  Mis'  Hobbs  ust  t'  say, — when  all 
of  a  suddent  I  noticed  Fido.  He  was  worryin* 
somethin'  in  th'  corner  an'  growlin'  fierce,  an'  th' 
baby  was  laughin'  t'  beat  th'  band.  .  .  .  He'd 
stole  my  hair- front!  'N'  time  we  got  it  away 
from  him  th'  wa'n't  nothin'  left  but  the  founda- 
tion. I  felt  pretty  well  cut  up  over  it.  'N' 
Philura,  she  said  she'd  buy  me  a  new  one  in  a 
nice  mejum  shade  o'  brown.  But  I  says  'No; 
Mr.  Pettibone's  sal'ry,'  I  says,  '  wa'n't  planned 
for  purchasin'  lux'ries;  'n'  b'sides,'  I  says,  'Fido 
didn't  know  no  better.'  I  guess  I  told  Mis'  Petti- 
bone  a  fib;  but  I  says  t'  her  I'd  made  up  m'  mind 
t'  look  old,  'n'  be  done  with  it.  So  here  I  be !  " 

M.  Desaye  had  listened  to  Miss  Malvina's  ex- 
planation of  her  bereft  condition  with  an  air  of 
profound  interest,  his  occasional  well-timed  ges- 
tures and  murmured  comments  sustaining  the 
little  lady's  narrative  to  its  conclusion. 

"  Mes  compliments  to  Fido,"  he  observed 
gently.  "  I  have  to  t'ank  zat  mos'  noble  animal 
for  deed  of  kin'ness  perform." 

"  For  th'  land  sake,  do  you  mean  t'  tell  me 
you  like  m'  looks  better  without  m'  front?"  de- 
manded Miss  Malvina  excitedly. 

" Pretisement"  murmured  M.  Desaye.  "  You 
'ave  now  ze  air  gentil — autrefois  regrettably  lack- 
ing— merci,  grace  a  Dieu!  " 


352  NEIGHBORS 

"  Well,  I  d'clare !  "  breathed  Miss  Bennett. 
11  Ain't  I  r'lieved  t'  hear  you  say  that!  I  s'posed, 
bein'  French,  you'd  admire  most  anythin'  stylish 
an'  han'some.  But  ef  you  don't ' 

Miss  Malvina  paused  uncertainly,  the  faint 
color  in  her  cheeks  deepening  to  rose. 

M.  Desaye  sighed. 

"  Dear  friend,"  he  said,  "  I  am  about  to  bid 
you  adieu.  I  'ave  determine !  I  'ave  resolve  1 
No  longer  I  remain  in  America,  supinely  attentive 
to  the  groans  of  France.  I  go,  I  fly  to  offer  my 
breast  to  the  sword  that  seeks  her  life !  " 

M.  Desaye  had  considered  this  eloquent  ex- 
planation of  his  purposes  with  care,  hence  its  be- 
wildering effect  upon  his  listener. 

Miss  Malvina's  late  blooming  roses  withered 
on  the  instant. 

"  You're  a-goin'  away?  "  she  quavered.  '  You 
'n'  Mad'lane,  jes'  's  I — jes'  's  Ma  'n'  me  was 
gettin' — gettin'  ust  t'  hevin'  you  fer  neighbors?" 

"Noblesse  oblige:  I  can  no  longaire  remain," 
assented  M.  Desaye,  with  an  eloquent  gesture. 
"  But  of  Madeleine  I  would  spik.  I  regret  to 
tear  Madeleine  from  your  mos'  kin'  affection  an' 
ze  Discreet  curatelle  of  madame,  votre  mere. 
Eet  ees  of  zis  I  would  spik  beyond." 

Miss  Malvina  sighed,  her  eyes  seeking  the 
window  where  an  hour  earlier  she  had  watched 


NEIGHBORS  353 

Madeleine  walking  with  Harry  Schwartz  in  an 
almost  visible  aureole  of  happiness. 

"  I  sh'd  cert'nly  hope  not,"  she  agreed  warmly, 
"  considerin'  Mad'lane's  got  a  stiddy  beau  'at 
can't  be  beat  nowheres  in  France,  t'  say  nothin' 
o'  Europe.  .  .  .  When  it  comes  t'  husban's,  a 
good,  plain  American  is  good  enough  fer  me. 
.  .  .  Ef  you'll  leave  her  with  Ma  Bennett  'n'  me 
we'll  take  keer  of  her  till  Harry  c'n  afford  t'  git 
married." 

M.  Desaye  frowned  thoughtfully. 

"  Your  country  also  faces  war,"  he  said.  "  But 
eet  will  not  invade  your  'omes,  as  in  France." 

He  cast  a  swiftly  appraising  glance  about  the 
sparsely  furnished  room,  his  thoughts,  mean- 
while, sweeping  the  wider  prospect  of  his  past 
and  future. 

"  Eet  ees  improbable  I  return,"  he  said  at 
length. 

Two  large  tears  welled  up  in  Miss  Malvina's 
eyes,  trembled  for  an  instant  on  her  lashes,  then 
without  pretense  of  concealment  rolled  down  her 
cheeks.  M.  Desaye  observed  the  phenomenon 
gravely.  It  suggested  a  heretofore  unconsidered 
way  out  of  his  dilemma. 

He  arose  and  with  careful  dignity  bowed  low 
before  the  lady  who  had  thus  honored  him  with 
her  tears. 


354  NEIGHBORS 

"  Sans  ceremonie,  ma  chere  arnie,  since  ze  hour 
eet  ees  brief,  let  me  ask  zat  you  do  me  ze  grand 
honneur  of  becoming  before  my  departure  Ma- 
dame Desaye.  Mos'  'appy  I  leave  my  Madeleine 
in  your  care.  .  .  .  You  will  consent — ouif  " 

Miss  Malvina  trembled  to  her  feet. 

"  What — what You  want  I  should • 

I'm  afraid  I  don't " 

"  I  am  reques'  zat  you  'onor  me  by  marry — I 
regret  I  'ave  not  propaire  Englis'  to  spik  an'  no 
dictionnaire  in  pocket.  .  .  .  You  un'erstan'  me— 
out?  " 

"  Well,  I  ain't  quite  a  ninny,"  said  Miss  Mal- 
vina, recovering  her  self-possession :  "  you  want  I 
should  marry  you,  so  's  to  look  after  Mad'lane 
when  you're  gone  back  to  France.  I  guess  that's 
about  th'  size  of  it." 

She  nodded  emphatically. 

"Ah-h!  You  'av  spik  mos'  noble!  I  t'ank 
you,  dear  frien',  you  s'all  not  eet  regret,  I 
promise !  " 

Miss  Malvina  submitted,  as  on  previous  occa- 
sions, to  the  touch  of  bearded  lips  upon  her  hand. 
A  wave  of  rose-colored  mist  appeared  to  enfold 
her. 

M.  Desaye  was  of  a  sudden  radiant,  loquacious. 
Like  one  in  a  dream  she  heard  him  setting  forth 
his  plans  for  an  immediate  marriage,  with  incom- 


NEIGHBORS  355 

prehensible  details  concerning  apanage  and  dot. 
Also,  he  apologized  profusely  for  not  having 
asked  the  honor  of  her  hand  in  marriage  from 
Madame  Dubois-Bennett,  as  was  indeed  right  and 
proper. 

Miss  Malvina  roused  herself  -at  this. 

"  I  don't  know  es  Ma  '11  hev  any  reel  objec- 
tions t'  offer,"  she  said,  with  dignity.  "  'N'  I 
guess  mebbe  I'm  old  enough  t'  speak  f'r  m'self." 

Then,  without  warning,  a  sob  escaped  her 
tremulous  lips. 

"  I  wisht  I  wa'n't  s'  old,"  she  whispered.  "  Ef 
I  was  only  young  'n' — V  han'some,  like  's  not 

you But,  land!  I  guess  you'll  think  I'm 

crazy  fer  thinkin'  o'  such  a  thing." 

She  wiped  her  eyes  and  sealed  up  her  tears 
with  an  energetic  sniff. 

M.  Desaye  was  looking  at  her  very  kindly.  If 
he  did  not  entirely  comprehend  her  thoughts,  his 
Gallic  sympathies  suggested  his  quick  rejoinder: 

"  Helas!  "  he  murmured,  "  eet  ees  true  we  aire 
no  longer  possess  of  la  jeunesse;  but  I  fin'  you 
mos'  charmante,  chere  Mees  Malvina.  For  you 
I  s'all  ever  cheris'  la  consideration  profonde." 

Miss  Malvina  smiled  bravely. 

44  I'll  be  good  t'  Mad'lane,"  she  said,  "  'n'  I 
hope  she  won't  mind  me  bein'  her  stepmother. 
.  .  .  Course  I — I  c'n  see  why  you  thought  o' 


356  NEIGHBORS 

marryin'  me.  .  .  .  'Tain't  like  we  was  young 
folks.  ...  But  I— I'd  redly  like  t'  stan'  up  t' 
be  married  in  a  white  dress.  I  c'n  keep  it  put 
away,  afterwards — t'  look  at,  V  r'member." 

Again  M.  Desaye's  active  imagination  rose  to 
the  occasion.  He  took  Miss  Malvina's  work- 
worn  little  hand  in  his. 

"  Chere  amie,"  said  he,  "  I  'ave  not  deserve 
such  bonheur.  On  far-distant  battlefield  I  s'all 
also  remembaire." 

From  his  finger  he  drew  a  ring,  fashioned  of 
gold  and  bearing  a  heraldic  devise  of  dragons  in 
deadly  combat.  Miss  Malvina's  fingers  were 
rough  with  needle  pricks  and  her  joints  bore  wit- 
ness to  rheumatic  pains  humbly  borne;  but  the 
quaint  old  ring,  treasured  through  many  genera- 
tions, slipped  easily  into  place. 

"  For  remembaire  of  mos'  happy  heure,"  he 
said  gently. 


XXX 

WHEN  Ma  Bennett,  fairly  brimming  over 
with  details  of  her  visit  to  Mrs.  Adel- 
bert  Cummings,  arrived  home  on  the 
following  afternoon,  she  found  her  daughter  sur- 
rounded by  breadths  of  shimmering  white  ma- 
terial, which  she  was  busily  engaged  in  fashioning 
into  a  gown. 

"  For  th'  land  sake,  Malviny,"  exclaimed  the 
old  lady,  "  that  looks  like  a  weddin'-dress." 

Miss  Malvina's  needle  described  a  sort  of 
flying  arc  of  basting  stitches  about  a  small 
arm-size. 

"  Tis,"  she  said  briefly. 

"Who  in  creation  's  goin'  t'  git  married?" 
inquired  Ma. 

"  I  bet  you  couldn't  guess,  ef  you  was  t'  try  a 
year,"  twinkled  Miss  Malvina.  "  'Twas  unbe- 
knownst t'  me  till  yist'day." 

Ma  Bennett  sat  down  heavily,  her  eyes  blink- 
ing behind  her  far-sighted  specs. 

"Is  it  Sadie  Buckthorn?"  she  inquired.  "I 
heared  she's  keepin'  comp'ny  with  a  young  man 
from  Boston." 

357 


358  NEIGHBORS 

"  Nope,"  said  Miss  Ma'lvina,  inserting  a  long 
seam  under  the  needle  of  her  machine  and  snap- 
ping down  the  presser-foot,  "  'tain't  anybody 
you'd  ever  think, — nor  me,  neither,  f'r  that  mat- 
ter. I  thought  I  sh'd  have  a  double  duck-fit  when 
I  heared  of  it." 

Ma  Bennett  gazed  searchingly  at  her  daughter's 
face  during  the  deafening  whir  which  marked 
the  passage  of  the  shining  white  stuff  under  the 
busy  needle. 

1  You  do  look  kin'  of  worked  up,  even  yit," 
she  commented.  "  When's  th'  weddin'  comin' 
off?" 

"  A  Wednesday  afternoon,  at  four  o'clock,  at 
th'  pars'nage,"  particularized  Miss  Malvina, 
smiles  rippling  over  her  face  like  breezes  over  a 
wheat-field.  ..."  My !  I  guess  most  every- 
body '11  be  some  s'prised  when  it  gits  out  a 
Thursday." 

"  Malviny  Bennett,  who's  goin'  t'  git  mar- 
ried?" demanded  Ma,  with  rising  asperity. 
"  You  cert'nly  kin  be  th'  aggravatin'est  person, 
when  you're  a  min'  to." 

"  You're  invited  t'  th'  ceremony,  Ma,"  offered 
Miss  Malvina,  evading  the  maternal  wrath  with 
a  demure  smile  of  protest. 

"Me? — invited!  I  don't  b'lieve  no  sech 
thing." 


NEIGHBORS  359 

"  True  's  preachin' ;  'n'  so  be  I,  Ma.  I  got  out 
your  bes'  black  silk  this  mornin'  early,  whilst  I 
was  waitin'  fer  the  stores  t'  open,  an'  I  fixed  the 
waist  'n'  put  some  real  han'some  lace  on  the 
sleeves.  You'll  look  scrum'tious,  Ma." 

u  What  you  goin'  t'  wear,  Malviny?  "  inquired 
the  old  lady  suspiciously.  ..."  I'll  bet  you're 
jes'  foolin',  anyhow.  I  sh'd  think  you'd  ruther 
hear  me  tell  'bout  Mis'  Adelbert  Cumminses  new 
parlor  furnitur'." 

Miss  Malvina  canted  her  curly  head  to  one 
side,  as  she  gazed  earnestly  at  the  inchoate  gar- 
ment in  her  lap. 

"  I  got  t'  hurry  so  like  all  possess  t'  git  this 
'ere  dress  done  b'  t'morrow  night,  I  ain't  really 
got  time  t'  dig  up  any  curiosity,"  she  said.  "  It's 
a-goin'  t'  be  made  up  princess,  with  a  trail:  I 
can't  abide  these  'ere  short  skirts  with  a  breadth 
o'  goods  tacked  on  the  back,  like  they're  wearin' 
now.  This  'ere  is  goin'  t'  be  a  reg'lar  weddin'- 
dress.  How  d'  you  like  the  goods,  Ma?  Ain't 
it  shiny  an'  pretty — kind  o'  like  my  hair,  when 

you  come  t'  think  of  it I  guess  'twould  be 

right  becomin' — /'  me." 

;<  Well,  /  guess  you've  gone  plumb  crazy,  Mal- 
viny," commented  the  old  lady  sternly.  .  .  .  "  I 
want  a  cup  o'  tea,  'n'  I  want  it  good  'n'  hot." 

"  Teapot's  on  th'  stove,  Ma.  .  .  .  Say,  don't 


360  NEIGHBORS 

y'  want  t'  know  who's  a-goin'  t'  step  off  in  this 
'ere  dress?  " 

"  I  don't  know  's  I  do,"  sniffed  Ma.  "  When 
folks  is  's  smart  an'  uppity  's  you  be,  I  b'lieve 
in  lettin'  'em  alone  tell  they  git  good  an' 
ready " 

"  It's  me,  Ma !  "  cried  Miss  Malvina,  laughing, 
but  with  a  mist  in  her  eyes  which  momentarily  ob- 
scured the  glistening  bridal  web.  "  I'm  a-goin' 
t'  marry  our  neighbor,  Mis-ter  Dassay,  so  't  he 
c'n  go  t'  th'  war  over  in  France  'n'  leave  Mad'- 
lane.  .  .  .  Y'see  I'll  be  her  step-ma,  'n'  you'll 
be  her  gran'ma;  won't  that  be  lovely?  " 

"  Mal-viny  Bennett!  "  screamed  the  old  lady. 
"You  ain't  tellin'  me  th'  gospel  truth?" 

"  Yes,  I  be,  Ma !  It's  jest  as  true  as  I'm  a-set- 
tin'  in  this  'ere  cheer,  a-sewin'  on  m'  own  weddin'- 
dress.  He  asked  me  yist'day,  'n'  I  says,  '  Yes.' 
Thinks  s'l,  folks'd  ought  t'  'commodate  their 
neighbors.  .  .  .  Want  t'  see  m'  engagement 
ring?" 

Confronted  with  this  visible  token  of  the  im- 
pending event,  Ma  Bennett  gasped. 

"  Ain't  you  some  older  'n  he  is?  "  she  inquired 
feebly. 

"  I  don'  know,  'n'  I  don't  keer  a  cotton  hat!  " 
stated  Miss  Malvina.  "  The'  wa'n't  nothin'  said 
about  ages But  I  guess  he  ain't  s'  awful 


NEIGHBORS  361 

young  but  what  he  knows  his  mind,  }n'  I  ain't, 
neither.  ..." 

The  little  dressmaker's  head  drooped  low  over 
the  buttonhole  she  was  fashioning. 

'Tain't — 'tain't,  so  t'  say,  a  weddin'  like  mos' 
folks,"  she  breathed.  "  He— he's  a-goin'  off  th' 
same  day — on  th'  'leven  o'clock  train.  We're 
goin'  t'  hev  supper  over  t'  his  house.  'N'  he 
wants  we  sh'd  go  over  there  t'  live  after  he's 
gone.  He's  bought  th'  house  off  Mis'  Rev'ren' 
Pettibone  'n'  put  it  in  my  name.  He  says  you 
an'  me  '11  never  hev  t'  want,  Ma.  He's  got  ev'ry- 
thin'  fixed  so  th'  '11  be  money  comin'  in  reg'lar, 
with  a  dot  fer  Mad'lane's  settin'  out,  when  she 
comes  t'  git  married,  'n'  all.  The'  ain't  nothin' 
he  ain't  thought  of.  An'  Mad'lane  says  she 
loves  me  like  a  mare,  a'ready;  but  that 
don't  mean  horse,  Ma,  though  it  does 
sound  like  it." 

"  Where'd  you  say  he's  a-goin1,"  inquired  the 
old  lady,  "  —  t'  Boston?" 

She  appeared  to  have  retreated  into  the  dim 
mists  of  age,  where  echoes  from  the  outer  world 
reach  the  ear  faintly.  She  fumbled  with  her 
bonnet  strings,  her  old  hands  trembling. 

"Land!  I'd  ought  t'  'a'  got  your  hot  tea,  first 
off,"  said  her  daughter  contritely.  "  Here,  you 
set  right  down,  Ma,  'n'  I'll  git  it  ready  in  two 


362  NEIGHBORS 

jerks  of  a  lamb's  tail.     You're  all  tuckered  out, 
what  with  your  visit  'n'  all.  ..." 

Mrs.  Pettibone  was  attired  in  her  best  brocade 
dress,  exhibiting  large  purple  flowers  on  a  black 
background,  though  it  was  only  half-past  three 
in  the  afternoon.  It  was  a  handsome  dress;  Mrs. 
Pettibone  rustled  in  its  ample  folds  so  richly  that 
the  baby's  wide  bright  eyes  exhibited  his  pleased 
surprise.  He  even  refrained  from  his  wonted 
squeal  when  his  mother  invested  his  small  person 
in  a  clean  white  dress,  the  sleeves  of  which  were 
a  trifle  small  as  compared  with  his  chubby  fists. 

"  You've  got  to  wear  it,  precious,"  cooed  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  "  because  Aunty  Bennett  made  it  for 
you,  and  you're  going  to  stand  up  at  her  wedding. 
.  .  .  There  now,  mother's  lamb — my !  how  sweet 
he  is.  ...  Doesn't  it  seem  a  pity,  Silas?  " 

Mr.  Pettibone,  engaged  in  knotting  a  fresh 
white  tie,  glanced  at  his  family  with  a  grave 
smile. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  it  is  a  pity  the  baby  is 
sweet,  my  dear?  "  he  inquired, 

"  Of  course  not!    I  was  thinking  of  Malvina." 

"  Hm-m." 

"  Seeing  the  baby  looking  so  perfectly  darling 
— well,  you  know,  I  couldn't  help  thinking  how 
dreadful  to  be  a  widow  on  one's  wedding  day. 


NEIGHBORS  363 

It  amounts  to  that,  of  course.  If  he  goes  to 
France  and  gets  killed " 

"  It's  just  possible  M.  Desaye  may  survive," 
suggested  the  minister.  "  Some  do,  you  know." 

'  He's  going  to  offer  his  breast  to  the  German 
bayonets;  Malvina  said  so;  and  if  a  person  does 
that " 

"  I  believe  they're  coming,  my  dear  Philura," 
interposed  the  minister  hastily.  "  Do  try  and  be 
your  optimistic  self.  One  should  hold  the 
thought " 

"  Yes,  of  course !  I'm  going  to  insist  that  he's 
coming  back  safe,  some  day  or  other.  .  .  .  Silas, 
do  you  think  we're  going  to  have  war  in  this 
country?  " 

The  minister  was  saved  from  the  pain  of  avow- 
ing his  convictions  on  this  point  by  the  arrival  of 
the  wedding  party.  And  presently  they  were  all 
gathered  in  the  hushed  parlor,  which  had  wit- 
nessed so  many  marriages  in  days  past:  Miss 
Malvina,  in  her  snowy  splendors;  M.  Desaye, 
stern  and  pale,  as  he  thought  of  his  future;  Ma 
Bennett,  dim  and  ancient  as  some  faded  daguer- 
reotype; Madeleine,  tremulous  between  grief  and 
joy,  and  Harry  Schwartz,  awed  into  almost  rigid 
gravity  by  the  talk  he  had  had  with  Madeleine's 
father  a  few  hours  since.  Mrs.  Pettibone,  in  her 
rustling  brocade,  reminiscent  of  her  own  wedding, 


364  NEIGHBORS 

held  her  baby  close  while  the  solemn  words  were 
being  spoken,  from  the  "  Dearly  beloved,  we  are 
assembled "  to  the  final  sonorous  "  Amen." 

There  followed  the  strange  little  silence  which 
seems  quite  as  much  a  part  of  the  ceremony  as 
the  wedding  ring;  then  M.  Desaye,  looking  very 
tall  and  elegant  in  his  rather  shabby  frock  coat 
with  the  tri-color  of  France  in  its  buttonhole, 
bent  over  his  bride  and  deliberately  kissed  her  on 
the  lips. 

"My  wife"  he  whispered,  with  all  the  gen- 
erous warmth  of  a  nature  which  could  envision  the 
belated  and  frost-bitten  romance  she  would  cher- 
ish to  the  end. 

Yet  it  was  not  a  sad  wedding.  The  bride  wore 
a  radiant  look  which  forbade  all  futile  sympathy. 

"  He  was  bound  t'  go,  anyhow,"  she  told  Mrs. 
Pettibone,  "  'n'  now  I  got  a  right  t'  think  of  him 
affectionate,  'n'  I  c'n  talk  ev'rythin'  over  with 
Mad'lane.  Besides,  Ma  'n'  me's  goin'  t'  live  in  a 
nice  house,  with  runnin'  water  'n'  all,  an'  we'll 
hev  Mad'lane — t'  love  an'  t'  cherish." 

Her  voice  broke  a  little  over  the  last  words, 
but  her  smile  was  all  sunshine  as  she  embraced 
and  kissed  the  girl  who  wept  in  her  arms. 

"  That's  right,  deary,"  she  soothed  her,  "  jes' 
you  cry  it  out  on  mother's  shoulder  'n'  you'll  feel 
better.  ,  .  .  An'  here  's  Harry  a-longin'  t'  com- 


NEIGHBORS  365 

fort  you,  too.  Oh,  we're  a-goin'  t'  take  care  o' 
this  little  girl;  ain't  we,  Harry?" 

"  Yes,  Miss  Malvina,"  said  Harry  firmly,  "  we 
will!" 

Mrs.  Pettibone,  holding  up  the  baby  to  be 
kissed,  smiled. 

"  We  shall  all  be  obliged  to  remember  that 
our  dear  Miss  Malvina  is  Madame  Desaye,  now," 
she  said. 

The  bride  looked  startled. 

"  Madame  Desaye? "  she  repeated  wonder- 
ingly.  "  Well,  I  d'clare  t'  goodness  that  part  of 
it  never  occurred  t'  me :  I've  been  so  took  up  with 
all  that's  happened,  'n'  like  that.  But  here  I 
be,  sure's  you  live — Madame  Desaye!  Well,  I 
guess !  " 

But  reflections  of  a  practical  sort  could  wait 
until  tomorrow.  Of  today — her  wedding  day — 
there  yet  remained  several  golden  hours,  as 
bright  as  the  shining  new  ring  upon  her  hand, 
which  M.  Desaye  had  put  there  to  keep  the  other 
company.  There  was  the  supper,  for  one  thing, 
cooked  and  served  by  Mrs.  Louisa  Wessells,  with 
divers  amendments  by  Madeleine.  To  be  sure, 
no  one  of  the  party,  with  the  possible  exception 
of  Ma  Bennett,  knew  what  they  were  eating. 
Miss  Malvina — no  longer — sat  at  the  head  of  the 
table  in  her  shining  bridal  white,  with  M.  Desaye 


366  NEIGHBORS 

opposite;  Harry  and  Madeleine,  their  hands 
clasped  under  the  cloth,  faced  Ma,  who  was  in- 
forming Mrs.  Wessells  that  the  tea  was  "  stun 
cold."  .  .  . 

"  If  I  wa'n't  teetotally  flabbergasted,"  declared 
Mrs.  Wessells,  as  she  described  the  scene  later  in 
the  various  kitchens  of  her  clientele.  "  I  don' 
know  's  I'd  'a'  b'lieved  my  years,  ef  anybody'd 
told  me  about  that  dinner.  .  .  .  Yes'm,  they  had 
wine;  but  t'was  this  'ere  kind,  made  in  France, 
they  say  don't  make  folks  drunk.  It  didn't  make 
me  drunk,  fer  I  took  down  's  much  a  teacup  full 
out  in  the  kitchen  afterwards,  an'  I  only  broke 
one  veg'table  dish  'n'  two  o'  them  cass'-rolls,  es 
she  calls  'em.  I  says  t'  Miss  Malvina,  '  Ain't 
you  a  member  of  the  W.  C.  T.  U.? '  I  says,  jes' 
like  that.  *  Hush,'  s'  she,  *  it's  only  fer  this  once,' 
s'  she — *  t'  drink  toast  with.'  *  Toast ! '  I  says ; 
'  I  ain't  made  no  toast,  'n'  what's  more,  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to;  you  got  more  'n  'nough,  's  'tis,'  I  says. 
Well,  they  kep'  it  up  fer  more  'n  an  hour.  .  .  . 
I  didn't  git  home  till  past  nine  o'clock.  She 
wanted  I  should  wash  up  all  them  dishes,  'n'  I 
done  it.  ...  Yes'm,  she  set  there,  eatin'  her 
p'rtaters  'n'  meat  in  a  white  silk  dress,  all  trimmed 
up  with  lace  an'  pearl  tossells,  an'  a  big  bunch 
o'  white  roses  layin'  alongside  on  th'  table.  .  .  . 
Yes'm,  I  sh'd  'a'  thought  she'd  a-wanted  t'  put 


NEIGHBORS  367 

on  somethin'  plainer  t'  eat  her  victuals  in;  but  she 
didn't.  'N'  bimeby  I  seen  her  out  in  the  yard 
with  him.  .  .  .  Yes'm,  she  was  a-trailin'  that 
there  white  dress  o'  hern  right  down  th'  front 
steps.  .  .  .  No'm,  I  didn't  ketch  what  he  said  to 
her.  But  he's  gone  all  right.  That  fur'n  girl  o' 
hisn  told  me  he  was  goin'  t'  th'  war,  when  she 
give  me  m'  two  dollars.  .  .  .  Yes'm,  he  left  her  a 
grass  widder  th'  same  day  they  was  married; 
but  I  guess  she'll  be  sod  all  right,  afore  th'  year's 
out:  he'll  either  git  drownded  by  one  o'  them 
nasty  suds-m'reens,  they  talk  about  s'  much; 
er  else  he'll  git  killed  over  there.  The'  ain't  s' 
much  t'  pick  V  choose  be'twixt  'em,  's  I  says 
t'  Georgie.  .  .  ." 

But  it  was  not  of  their  uncertain  future  the 
newly  wedded  pair  spoke,  as  they  walked  arm 
and  arm  in  the  moonlight.  That  the  moon 
chanced  to  be  at  its  full  was  a  matter  for  won- 
dering happiness  to  the  bride. 

"  I  always  kind  o'  hankered  t'  go  walkin'  in 
th'  moonlight  along  with  a  beau,"  she  confided 
to  her  companion ;  "  V  here  I  be — a-walkin'  out 
— with  you." 

His  hand  sought  hers. 

"  Of  a  possibility  we  s'all  again  make  togezzer 
ze  promenade,"  he  said.  "  Eet  ees  of  zis  you 
mus'  sink." 


368  NEIGHBORS 

After  a  pause  he  added: 

"  I  'ave  still  ze  regret  profond  for  Madeleine. 
My  daughter  s'ould  not  marry  wiz  a  German." 

"Who,  Harry?  Harry  ain't  a  German! 
Course  he  ain't!  Lots  o'  times  I've  heared  Mis' 
Schwartz — her  'twas  M'lissy  Meadowcroft — tell 
about  her  great-gran' father,  Cap'n  Meadowcroft. 
He  was  English,  'way  back  in  ol'  colony  days, 
'n'  he  married  a  real  Injun  princess — I  forgit  her 
name;  so  y'  see  Harry  ain't  German,  no  more  'n 
I  be.  He's  reel  American,  Harry  is,  an'  he'll  take 
awful  good  keer  of  Mad'lane.  He's  a-goin'  t' 
build  a  bran'  new  house,  Mis'  Schwartz  told  Ma 
so." 

M.  Desaye  shook  his  head. 

"  Not  a  present"  he  said.  "  I  'ave  advise 
heem  no — for  now.  Beyond,  ze  skies  in  America 
aire  dark  wiz  war,  aussi  your  country  owes  to 
France  red  blood  of  patriot." 

He  glanced  hurriedly  at  his  watch. 

"  But  of  zis,  suffisamment.  .  ..  .  To  you,  chere 
amie,  I  devote  my  las'  moment.  .  .  .  You  will 
be  'appy — n' est-ce-pas?  All  my  bes'  treasure  I 
am  leave  wiz  you.  ..." 

Her  upturned  face,  pale  with  anticipated  grief, 
seemed  the  face  of  youth  in  the  dim  moonlight. 

"  I'm  a-goin'  t'  miss  you  somethin'  fierce,"  she 
confessed.  "  But — but  I'm  glad  I  c'n — love  you 


NEIGHBORS  369 

— after  you're  gone.  .  .  .  You  won't  mind — 
'way  out  there?  Course  I  know  why  we  was 
married,  'n'  all;  'n'  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  worry 
Mad'lane  none  b'  takin'  on.  ...  I'm  a-goin1  t' 
be  reel  bright  an'  cheerful  'n'  take  good  keer  of 
your — bes' — treasure." 

"Ah-h!  You  'ave  love  me — a  leetle,  n'est-ce- 
pas?"  he  wondered.  "  'Ow  I  am  'appy  to  'ear 
zat!  In  France  I  remembaire — my  wife,  my 
child — togezzer  in  my  'eart,  toujours." 

Then  because  her  steadfast  face  quivered  be- 
neath his  gaze,  he  gathered  the  small  white  figure 
in  his  arms. 

4  Togezzer — in  my  'eart — alway,"  he  mur- 
mured. 


L'ENVOI 

To  M.  Etienne  Desaye, 

Somewhere  in  France: 

"  My  dear  &  respected  Husband :  Your  letters 
to  me  &  Madeleine  come  this  morning.  To  say 
we  was  fairly  keeled  over  with  joy  is  to  put  it 
mild.  Madeleine  has  been  writing  to  you  in 
French  all  morning,  but  I  ain't  up  to  snuff  yet. 
But  I'm  coming  on.  Me  &  Madeleine  talk 
French  most  all  the  time,  doing  up  dishes  &  like 
that.  Even  Ma  has  learned  how  to  ask  for  the 
butter,  and  is  her  tea  biling  hot.  I  will  say  it 
makes  a  nice  change  to  hear  it  said  in  a  furren 
language.  Well,  Husband,  you  had  ought  to  see 
how  nice  we  are  fixed,  now  we  are  all  living  in 
our  own  home  together.  Madeleine  insisted  I 
was  to  sleep  in  your  room  &  Ma  sleeps  in  the 
room  over  the  front  hall,  being  next  to  me,  with 
Madeleine  over  the  dining-room,  as  before. 
Everything  is  house-cleaned  &  looking  as  neat  as 
wax.  I  was  put  in  mind  of  the  day  after  you 
moved  in  and  I  come  over  to  help,  being  a  next- 
door  neighbor.  I  ain't  never  forgot  how  you 
wanted  to  pay  me.  I  guess  I  got  paid  all  right, 
naze-pa  ? 

"  I  grieve  to  tell  you  you  was  dead  right  about 
the  war.  We  are  a  going  to  have  one,  &  Harry 
Schwartz  has  enlisted  in  the  Navy.  He  says  it  is 

370 


NEIGHBORS  371 

strictly  up  to  him  to  prove  he  is  an  American 
citizen,  after  all  thats  come  &  gone.  Madeleine 
is  real  brave  &  only  cries  nights,  sometimes. 
Then  I  go  in  &  cuddle  her  up,  like  I  was  her 
mother.  She  is  a  real  little  comfort  &  we  love 
each  other  dearer  every  passing  day.  I  see  your 
looks  in  her  constant,  more  especial  your  eyes  & 
the  cant  of  the  head  in  talking. 

'  There  is  one  thing  I  have  to  tell  you  which 
mebbe  you  wont  like  so  well.  But  I  made  up  my 
mind  twas  best,  all  things  considered.  You 
probly  reclect  I  been  sewing  most  all  my  life  & 
to  set  and  baste  a  seam  by  the  window,  with  an 
eye  to  the  passing,  comes  natural  to  me.  Well, 
Husband,  after  folks  found  out  I  was  married  I 
guess  most  every  woman  in  this  town  come  to  see 
me.  They  could  not  seem  to  realize  it,  first  off. 
But  when  I  showed  off  my  two  rings  they  was 
forced  to  believe.  Like  as  not  you  will  snicker 
right  out  when  I  tell  you  I  felt  real  mad  to  have 
all  the  folks  calling  me  Miss  Malvina,  same  as 
before.  That  ain't  my  rightful  title,  I  says  to 
Mis  Deaconess  Buckthorn.  I  am  a  married 
woman,  I  says  to  her,  full  as  much  as  you  be,  & 
my  name  is  Madame  Desaye.  You  can  ask  the 
Revrend  Pettibone,  I  says,  &  he  will  tell  you  tis 
gospel  truth.  Well,  Husband,  what  with  the 
above,  &  all  the  women  folks  pestering  the  life 
out  of  me  to  make  up  their  spring  suits,  I  give 
in  at  last  &  sent  for  Henry  Pratt  to  paint  me  a 
sign,  reading  Madame  Desaye,  Robes.  I  guess 
folks  will  soon  learn  my  rightful  name  seeing  it 
on  the  front  of  the  house  in  gold  letters.  Made- 


372  NEIGHBORS 

leine  views  all  my  acts  sensible  &  she  ain't  a  mite 
of  objection  to  anything  I  done.  I  calklate  to 
save  all  extry  cash  for  Madeleine's  dot,  as  you  & 
her  call  it.  'Twont  do  no  harm,  I  says,  to  leave 
money  a  laying  in  the  bank  for  a  spell.  I  hope 
you  will  think  I  done  right,  more  especial  about 
the  sign.  It  cost  me  three  twenty-five,  being  war 
prices.  While  I  set  writing  this,  at  the  desk  in 
your  room  up-stairs,  I  see  our  Madeleine  talking 
to  Harry  Schwartz  down  by  the  front  gate.  He 
expects  to  join  his  ship  to-morrow,  so  the  poor 
young  things  is  going  through  what  we  did,  not 
so  long  ago.  I  found  the  waist  of  my  wedding 
dress  all  spotted  up  with  tears,  when  I  come  to 
lay  it  away  in  blue  paper  to  keep  it  from  turning 
yellow,  &  right  off  the  bat  I  put  a  hansome  double 
cascade  of  lace  on  to  cover  it.  It  looks  full  as 
stylish  as  before,  if  not  stylisher,  but  I  ain't  a 
going  to  forget  whats  in  under  them  lace  frills 
as  long  as  I  live.  Those  spots  was  true  heart 
tears  for  one  I  love  more  than  tongue  can  tell, 
like  it  says  in  the  Bible.  I  hope  this  letter  finds 
you  in  health. 

"  Very  respectfully,  Your  affectionate  wife, 

Malvina  Dubois-Bennett  Desaye. 
"  P.  S.    Some  name,  Naze-pa?  " 


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